


To Where You Are

by Witch_Nova221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 79,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witch_Nova221/pseuds/Witch_Nova221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is in despair over Sherlock's death he receives a cryptic letter that compels him to Ireland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mourning

A/N: Well here we go, Nova found a new fandom and Nova rose to the challenge. This is a little reunion fic to help me get over the horror that was the end of season two, hope you enjoy.

Thanks has to go greatly and wholeheartedly to my wonderful beta WitchRavenFox who has cheered me on all the way through this- be sure to check her out, especially her Sherlock series, Against the Counter.

Standard disclaimer applies, I own nothing of Sherlock, that all belongs to the gods Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss (aww gotta love Mycroft) and of course the brilliant ACD!!

Remember views are love but flames will be ignored and probably receive a somewhat sarcastic response with no punches pulled.

So here we go, please sit back and enjoy the ride.

Mourning

‘Who can say for certain, maybe you’re still near, I feel you all around me, your memory so clear. Deep in the stillness, I can here you speak. You’re still my inspiration, can it be that you are my forever love, watching me from up above? And I believe, that angels grieve and that love can live on and never leave.’ – To Where You Are, Josh Groban.

xxxx

John Watson dropped his heavy duffle bag onto the ancient wooden floor of 221B Baker Street, the impact causing a small puff of dust to fly up and settle in a haze in the room. The summer sunlight filtered through the half drawn curtains, casting rays over the furniture, unmoved since he had last left it. It had been four months since he’d buried his best friend, four months since he had fled that flat that reminded him far too much of Sherlock Holmes. He’d believed that he could never return but no other place had felt right. 

He had tried Harry’s but she had been all false concern and behaved like a mother, fussing every time he moved. He was determined to love his sister but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t kill her if her stayed with her. He managed the three weeks until the funeral with her but he had decided even before he had joined the small cortege that he couldn’t go back to hers. He had been discussing his prospects of lodgings with Mrs Hudson and Molly, the only people in the room other than Mycroft that he knew. Mrs Hudson told him that Baker Street would always welcome him even as Molly stayed silent but it had been the soft voice from behind him that had made another offer.

He had been introduced to Sherlock’s mother before the service had begun, Mycroft having ushered him to the front pew with them both and he had ended up holding her hand throughout, watching the silent tears her eldest son clearly had no idea how to calm. After the ceremony though she had been swept into a cacophony of family and John had retreated to the familiar faces he knew. After their brief meeting therefore he was unprepared when she had offered him a place at the family home and he had accepted out of shock rather than judgement. He had arrived that evening in a car provided by Mycroft, the sprawling house far too large for a woman alone despite the staff she kept. Mrs Holmes, Evangeline he had to often remind himself, kind and attentive with all of Sherlock’s looks and mannerisms that were muted versions of her son’s. The main difference in mother and son though was her accent; American, which had been wholly unexpected to John but Evangeline had explained her origins. The daughter of an oil baron who had married young to an English aristocrat and giving him two sons.

John found the house elegant and vast but empty, Evangeline receiving daily visitors but none stayed long; even Mycroft, though John always made himself scarce whenever he arrived. He had stayed out of an obligation but soon had found the kindness morphing to something else as she had tried to force onto him the inheritance that should have been her youngest son’s. It was a substantial fortune but he couldn’t take it, the comfort it would offer nothing in comparison to the friend he had lost. 

He had left the house soon after but with a promise to visit as often as he could. Even though he left without the fortune he did have several mementos that she had begged him to keep, photographs of Sherlock that she swore she had in double and an antique magnifying glass that had been a favourite of his friend as a child. John kept a picture of his friend in his inside jacket pocket, feeling lost if he ever left the house without it. 

He took up lodgings in a veterans’ hotel and was glad to be around fellow soldiers again but it was not home, reminding him of the state he had been in before he had met Sherlock, and he had found himself picking up his phone one evening to call Mrs Hudson. She had offered him the flat back with all the kindness she had ever shown them both, glad that it would be lived in once more.

It hadn’t changed in the months he had been away, Mrs Hudson having moved nothing and John was almost surprised when there was no noise of an explosion from the kitchen or the petulant huff of his friend as he swanned into the living room in his silk dressing gown with cries of boredom. He felt the tears sting his eyes and once more questioned whether his return was for the best but he knew he couldn’t leave, he had spent the happiest, craziest months of his life at Baker Street and he could live in the memories the place invoked.

“Will you be needing anything dear?”

John almost startled at the sound of his landlady’s voice, turning to see her hovering in the doorway with an apprehensive smile on her face. 

“No thanks Mrs Hudson, I’ll be fine,” he said, “I…I thought I might go along to the cemetery later though, haven’t been for a while. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Mrs Hudson smiled, “Call for me before you leave then,” she said before she clasped her hands with a false cheer, “Well I’ll leave you to get settled then. You know where I am if you need anything.”

John nodded, turning back to the scene before him as he heard her descend the stairs to her part of the house below. He crossed the small space from the door to the two armchairs that sat facing one another, one battered leather and the other over stuffed and patterned. He took the patterned, his eyes falling on the chair opposite before they scanned further back. He raked his gaze over the piles of books and papers, substance encrusted test tubes resting here and there where they had been forgotten but they were not what held his focus. A beam of sunlight had sneaked in through the smallest gap in the curtains and had fallen as if by design over the elegant black case that sat on top of the riot of disorganisation with far more grace than its companions. John got to his feet on instinct and crossed to the window, his body blocking the sunbeam but it didn’t distract his focus as he traced a finger across the hardened black leather to the silver locks. He flipped them both open and lifted the lid, revealing the red velvet lining and, more poignantly, what the lining protected. 

So often had he been woken at all hours of the morning to the sound of Sherlock’s violin, the melody always that of a master though he had never taken the time to truly appreciate it when it had woken him. There had been other times he had heard his flatmate play, when he was jubilant at the end of a case, when he was mulling over his thoughts on another, when he was bored or just whenever the mood had taken him, John’s participation as an audience never required but often quietly appreciated. 

John gently traced the well-worn strings, feeling the stick of the rosin that lingered there; needing its master’s fingers to skilfully remove it from its unexpected embalmment. He felt a small smile quirk at his lips as he recalled times when he had cursed the instrument only to find himself wishing that he could hear its tones once more.

“Great noisy old thing,” he muttered to himself as he closed the lid, ignoring the path of the tear that coursed its way down his cheek.

xxxx

“Mrs Hudson,” said John as he tapped politely on her door, “Are you ready?”

He heard her footsteps and stepped back as the door opened to reveal her, a cordless phone pressed to her ear though she had placed a hand over the mouthpiece.

“My sister,” she said quietly, “I won’t get away for a while now. You go along. Tell Sherlock I’ll pop up and see him soon.”

John nodded, his heart clenching a little as his landlady’s words made it sound as though their absent friend was merely away. Mrs Hudson smiled in understanding, her free hand squeezing his forearm before she bustled back into the room and closed the door. John headed out into the street, the weather clear and warm but he had pulled his jacket on all the same, Sherlock’s photograph a welcome reminder in his breast pocket.

He hailed a taxi and absently gave the direction for the graveyard before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a plain black armband, setting it in place with a well practised ease. The cabby tried to make conversation but John was in no mood for idle chatter and his short, polite answers soon gave an obvious hint. He paid the fare as thy pulled up to the iron gates, jumping out and heading to the small flower stall that was set to the side of the entrance. The woman smiled in recognition and soon handed him a familiar collection of blooms.

The cemetery was near empty but John was glad of it, still being recognised now and then as Sherlock’s companion and he didn’t want to lead any of the tabloid hungry nutters to his graveside. He stiffened in shock therefore when he saw someone knelt by the neat black marble but recognition soon came to him and he allowed himself a small smile. He crossed as silently as he could before he lent down and placed his hands gently over the eyes of the woman before him. 

“You tell me off for not visiting and then turn up without a word,” he said, feeling the smile that graced her face before he released her. 

He stood and helped her to her feet, stepping into a familiar embrace.

“John dear its good to see you.”

“Mrs Holmes,” he said, as she pressed an affectionate kiss to his cheek, “How are you?”

“I’d be all the better if you remembered to call me Evangeline,” she said, grey-blue eyes glittering with her smile, “Mrs Holmes sounds so dreadfully formal.”

“Evangeline then,” said John.

He saw the familiar look of amusement in her eyes, knowing how much he still struggled to call her by her given name despite her insistence. It was a look he knew well, having seen it so often in Sherlock’s eyes, the affectionate amusement whenever John had made him laugh at their situation or at himself. There was no doubting whose mother Evangeline was, the same sharp cheekbones and wild black curls though they tumbled long and were shot through with silver. John saw the same brilliant intelligence there also, the penetrating stare missing nothing and analysing everything. 

“What brings you to London?” said John, as he knelt down beside the now settled earth before the headstone, setting the small bouquet down next to the dozen red roses already propped against the stone. He traced a finger along the ‘S’ of the engraving, the coldness of the stone stark against his skin.

“Mycroft,” said Evangeline with a sigh, “His cousin is due to become a father and there are trust funds to deal with. He needed my signature.”

“And he couldn’t have come to you?” said John with a bristle, his distaste towards the eldest Holmes son not having dwindled in the passed months.

Evangeline cast her eyes towards the gravestone, “I find myself finding more and more reasons to come to London these days,” she said, “I can’t believe its been four months.”

John laid a hand on her arm, feeling the tension there that spoke of repressed emotion, “I know,” he said, “I moved back into the flat today, almost got a shock when he wasn’t there lounging on the sofa or shooting at the walls.”

Evangeline laughed, “Little horror,” she said fondly, “He was always a pest, even when he was small. So much energy but sometimes I think he burned just a little too brightly.”

John was silent, unsure of what to say to comfort her as her thoughts clearly strayed once more onto the memories she held. There times together had often been filled with similar silences and John found an odd comfort in it, glad there was someone in the world who he could share them with. 

“He’d tell us off you know,” said Evangeline when the silence became too heavy, “Getting all overly emotional.”

John smiled, “He would at that,” he said, before silence descended once more, “Are you staying in London tonight?”

Evangeline nodded, “Mycroft insisted and you know how he gets. I was just getting ready to head back when you arrived.”

“I didn’t see a car,” said John, looking over his shoulder as if expecting one of Mycroft’s cronies to be lurking nearby.

“Despite the predilections of both my sons, I am more than capable of getting a bus,” said Evangeline, “Or even walking when the mood takes me.”

John laughed but the sound was cut short as his phone beeped loudly from his pocket. He reached for it with a swift apology before he scowled at the name that winked up at him. Lestrade, another on the list of not quite forgiven, his loss of faith in Sherlock another factor that had sent the younger man to his suicide. He stuffed his phone into his coat pocket without reading the message and forced a smile to his face.

“Dinner plans?” he said to the woman before him.

“A stilted and formal dinner with Mycroft unless I find a better offer.”

“I could take you to one of Sherlock’s old haunts. Angelo’s isn’t much but the food is good,” said John, “And if you like we can stop off at the flat, everything of Sherlock’s is still there if you wanted to take anything home.”

“I’d like to see it, if nothing else,” said Evangeline, taking his proffered arm, before she reached out with her free hand to touch the headstone, “Sleep tight my darling.”

John covered her hand with his own, sharing the touch on the headstone and hoping once more that his friend would perform one more miracle and come back to them. He hated to think of him beneath the ground, trapped and contained but he had had to bow to the families will and at least with a headstone he had somewhere to visit. With his own silent farewell he led Evangeline from her son’s graveside, persuading her once more into the stories of his youth that offered her so much comfort.

It was late when Mycroft’s conspicuous black limo finally swept Evangeline Holmes from the steps of 221B Baker Street, both Mrs Hudson and John waving to her from the door until she was out of sight.

“Such a fine, elegant woman,” said Mrs Hudson with a sigh, “But so sad. You can tell Sherlock was her favourite, she doesn’t speak nearly as fondly of that Mycroft.”

John smiled, as he let her precede him back into the house, “Well despite his faults Sherlock definitely had the more appealing personality,” he said, cursing quietly as his phone beeped in his pocket once again.

“Someone is definitely after you this evening,” said Mrs Hudson, “That thing’s not stopped trilling all night.”

“Its Lestrade,” said John, absently checking the phone to see the tenth message from the inspector, “He hasn’t quite got the hint yet.”

“Perhaps its important dear.”

“It can stay important,” said John bitterly, “If he hadn’t…losing Lestrade’s trust hit Sherlock hard, if he’d only…”

“Oh John,” said Mrs Hudson gently, “I know how much you miss him.”

John straightened himself, shaking away the pain that took him, “Crying won’t bring him back,” he said, almost hearing Sherlock’s voice in the words, “Crying doesn’t help.”

“Sometimes a good cry does,” said Mrs Hudson as she opened the door to her own flat, “You lost someone you loved John. You’re allowed to mourn him, however long it takes.”

John didn’t answer her immediately, not quite sure how coherent the response would be if he tried, “Good night Mrs Hudson,” he said finally.

He had turned before she had answered, slowly climbing the stairs to the flat. His phone beeped once more, another message from Lestrade and he hit the button to delete all the messages in his inbox, cursing as he realised that he’d deleted the last few texts from Sherlock in the same action. Pain coursed through him once more and only years of drilled restraint stopped him from throwing the phone at the wall in his frustration. The room suddenly seemed so much smaller around him, surrounded by familiarity, surrounded by their things, by his things. The feelings and images near overwhelmed him and he rushed from the room, taking the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. He slammed the door behind him and all but collapsed on the bed, only then did he give in to the pain of the day and cried.

xxxx

The harsh beep of a mobile phone echoed through the quiet of the night, waking John from his sleep with a start. He scrubbed at his eyes, feeling a familiar grit there before his hand moved to rub his shoulder, easing the ache that lingered there. 

“Piss off Lestrade,” he muttered but reached for his phone all the same, frowning as an unknown number flashed on the screen.

‘Dún Chaoin, Co. Kerry’

John frowned at the words before him, none of them making sense to him. He shook his head and set his phone back on the nightstand, wondering if the message would have made any sense to the true recipient. He had just closed his eyes once more when the phone beeped again, the same number flashing on the screen.

‘Time for a holiday? SH’

John’s blood froze in his veins even as a sweat broke out on his brow. He read and reread the message, so short and simple but the two letters at the end held such an extraordinary power over him.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice thin in the silence of the room, “Sherlock.”

He leapt to his feet as the name on his lips finally registered in his mind. Rationality went to hell as he ran from the room and into the living room, his flatmate’s name coming all the louder from his lips as it turned to a question.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

He all but skidded to a halt as he was met by the darkness of the living room, surprised when there was no figure laid out on the sofa or stood in the light from the window, violin in hand. He even went as far as moving until the kitchen was in view but the table remained free of experiments, the equipment neatly arranged on the counter rather than haphazardly spread around. The sleepy fog in his mind finally cleared and memory crashed down on him. Sherlock was dead and dead men couldn’t text.

John looked down at his phone and the message that had woken him, realising that someone had found his number somehow and was enjoying a sick joke at his expense. This time military training didn’t come to bear, this time his patience had been worn too thin and with a curse he threw the phone at the smiling yellow face on the wall with all his might, smashing the device into irreparable pieces. It did nothing to ease his pain but by morning he had the intent to get a new number and free himself of whatever sick game the sender wanted to play.

xxxx

A/N; More soon if you like it.

Nova x


	2. Letters

The September air was particularly thick and sticky, even the sophisticated air conditioning of Bart’s hospital doing nothing to relieve the humidity of the Indian Summer. John had been working as a consultant for almost two months, Molly having put him onto the role just after he had returned to Baker Street. She had been most insistent that he apply but since he had been given the position she had kept her distance, only bumping into her occasionally in the corridors or in the queue at lunch. He didn’t blame her for avoiding him, he too avoided many of the acquaintances he had made during his friendship with Sherlock, the feeling that there was always something missing from the dynamic all too apparent when he was with them.

He rubbed his neck as he looked up from his case notes, the heat doing little for his concentration so he was glad when the clock read only half an hour until he could leave for the day. He had had many offers to join colleagues at various beer gardens across London but home had been calling him since lunch time, the cool interior of Baker Street far more appealing than the sun drenched bars along the river. A hangover was not an option either when he had to travel the next morning, his fortnightly visits to see Evangeline Holmes having been firmly established and he did not plan to disappoint her. 

Finally the clock read a desirable time and John left the building with a sigh of relief, even the stifling streets unable to remove his good mood at the thought of a quiet evening in. The route to Baker Street was delightfully stress free and he was more than happy to push open the heavy front door, smiling as he heard his landlady singing from behind her own. He began to climb the stairs but had clearly been heard as the door below opened.

“John, is that you?”

“Hello Mrs Hudson,” he said, crouching on the stairs rather than walking back down them.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said, reaching into the pocket of her apron and drawing out an envelope, “This got mixed up in my mail. You might want to tell whoever it is that they can address the mail directly to you.”

John took the envelope, addressed to him but delivered care of Mrs Hudson, 221A Baker Street. The script was elegant and flowing, showing the penmanship despite the cheap ballpoint of the pen. He regarded it quizzically, a small hint of recognition tugging his mind but he couldn’t place a finger on it. 

“I’ll be sure to tell them,” he said, “Thanks for keeping it for me.”

Mrs Hudson looked slightly disappointed as he pocketed the letter rather than opening it but smiled all the same, bustling back into her own flat with a call of farewell. John continued up to the flat, opening the door that separated it from the stairwell and stepping inside. He dropped his bag and headed directly for his chair, gratefully sinking into it with a sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialling a now familiar number.

He was glad he had grown used to Holmes’ eccentricities during his acquaintance with both Sherlock and Mycroft, unsurprised when the housekeeper rather than Evangeline answered the phone. He had felt a little odd at first when even a phone call needed to be announced but now he waited patiently until a familiar voice reverberated in his ear.

“Hello John dear.”

“Just a call to see that everything is still ok for tomorrow.”

“Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing you and the gardens are so pretty, I can’t wait for you to see them,” said Evangeline, “Why not come for the whole weekend? I can have Mycroft send a car tonight and you’ll be hear before ten thirty, make a holiday of it. You need a break John dear, you’ve been working so hard.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” he said, hearing soft laughter from the end of the line.

“I rattle around this old pile by myself and you worry I’ll be put out by your company. Your room is always ready for you John. Come up tonight and make an old lady happy.”

John smiled, “You’re hardly old Evangeline Holmes,” he said, “And I’ll come up if it really won’t be a problem but let me get the train.”

“Now John darling, what is the point in me having a son in the higher echelons of this country’s government if I cannot exploit it now and then? I’ll have a car there in half an hour, can you be ready?”

“Definitely,” said John, knowing there was little point going against a Holmes when their mind was made up, “I’ll see you in a while.”

“Safe trip John.”

He chucked his phone onto the arm of the chair as the line clicked off, allowing himself a moment of quiet before he got to his feet and began hastily packing a bag to leave Baker Street, the letter forgotten in his coat pocket.

xxxx

John woke, momentarily disoriented by the jumble of sheets that cocooned him rather than his familiar duvet but he smiled as he remembered where he was, the rich décor of the Holmes mansion familiar to him now rather than daunting. He had arrived at just gone ten, lights pouring from the large windows of the house to greet him as the familiar figure of the butler stepped down the front steps to open the door of Mycroft’s limousine. John had greeted him warmly but had been swiftly pulled into a familiar embrace, Evangeline as affectionate as ever and welcoming him as warmly as she would have one of her own. He was soon shown into one of Evangeline’s favoured parlours, pausing briefly to look at the photos spread out on top of the grand piano. So many of them were of Sherlock and it had always amused him from the first moment of stepping into the house how cherub-like his childhood pictures were. The day had soon caught up with John however and Evangeline had ushered him to bed with promises of a tour of the gardens in the morning. 

John stretched, reaching a little blindly for his phone as the sun poured in through the lace drapes at the windows. He looked at the time, having to double take as it registered in his mind. He all but fell out of bed and hurried through his morning routine, thundering down the stairs almost as soon as he was dressed and bursting into the parlour with far less grace than the house demanded.

“Evangeline, I am so sorry,” he said, “I never meant to sleep so late.”

The older woman’s serene expression didn’t falter as she neatly returned several letters to a box open on the table before her, “You were tired so I left you to sleep,” she said.

“We had made plans.”

“A walk in the garden,” said Evangeline, “Hardly a great adventure and one that is easily postponed. It just so happens that the roses look all the better in the afternoon anyway.”

John smiled in gratitude as he took the seat she offered him and gratefully accepting the cup of tea she pressed into his hands. He lost himself for a moment in the beverage before he looked up to find a pair of familiar steel blue turned on him in rapt study. He met the penetrating gaze and could almost feel the layers being peeled away, Sherlock clearly having inherited many of his gifts from his mother.

“You’ve not been sleeping properly John,” said Evangeline gently.

“The heat,” he said, though even he knew the excuse was flimsy and smiled in spite of himself, “I’m still not used to being alone at Baker Street. I used to moan about Sherlock banging about down stairs at all hours but I almost can’t rest without the noise now.”

Evangeline peered a little closer at him and frowned, “No that’s not it,” she said, “There’s something else bothering you.”

John matched her frown, “I don’t think there’s anything else,” he said, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze and dropping his own to the table between them, “That’s one I’ve not seen before.”

He set down his cup on its saucer and picked up the photograph from the small piles stacked by the ornate wooden box Evangeline had been looking through. The photo showed Sherlock in the same room as John now sat in, violin in hand as he stood beside his mother at the piano.

“This can’t be that old,” said John, “He doesn’t look so different.”

Evangeline leaned over and smiled, “Two Christmases ago. It would take me and his Granny hours of nagging but he’d finally relent and play for us,” she said, “He was always so happy when he was playing.”

John smiled, “Yes he was, even in his worst moods he seemed happy to be playing,” he said going to place the picture back down but a pale hand stopped him.

“Keep it,” said Evangeline.

John shook his head, “I can’t, its clearly special to you.”

“Every picture of my Sherlock is special to me but I have many and you have so few,” she said, “You two met not long after that picture was taken, I want you to remember him at his happiest.”

John picked the picture up once more, looking more closely at the image of his friend; dark hair spilled in curls over one eye as he focused on the bow in his hand mid piece. He looked lost in the music and happy, a small smile on his face that John had seen so many times after mad chases across London or when they had joined forces in laughing at Mycroft. He felt tears prick the back of his eyes and cleared his throat in the hope he could chase of the remorse that was threatening him.

“Cry if you need to John,” said Evangeline, her pale fingers curling once more around his, “Its alright.”

John shook his head, “Crying won’t help.”

“Now that’s Sherlock talking, not you,” said Evangeline, “And let me tell you something, for all his bluster my boy cried too. He gave in and he cried when he needed to. He hid it, hid it from everyone but me, but he cried John. You and I are good friends; if you can’t cry in front of me then who can you cry with? We have both lost someone we loved.”

John laughed in spite of himself, “I’d hardly compare my friendship with Sherlock to your love for him,” he said.

“I would,” said Evangeline, picking up one of the letters from her box and moving to sit beside him, “He loved you John.”

John took the letter she held out to him, his eyes scanning the page and reading the oddly sentimental script in his friend’s hand. His friend opened by asking after his mother’s health and then of family members before he began speaking of the various cases they had undertaken. John smiled as he remembered the particular case, a bunch of counterfeiters forging Bank of England bonds. It remained particularly bright in his mind as it had been he who had matched the dye on the forged bonds to a local newspaper press, the bothersome transfer to his hands and clothes having triggered the memory in his mind. As he read the letter it seemed Sherlock was willing to share the credit for their final victory but it was his wording as he wrote of it to his mother that startled John.

‘…for a while I didn’t believe it but my John had found the clue we’d been so desperate for. I never imagined that the answer would be so close to Baker Street but he saw it without a moment of input from me. Of course he still has so much to learn but he has a brilliance of mind that removes him from the others I am forced to surround myself with. You would like him, Mummy, if you were to meet him. He is quite a singular person and I am glad to be able to call him my friend.’

“My John,” he echoed, feeling the tears prick his eyes once more.

Evangeline curled her hand around his trembling one, “He always called you that,” she said, “The first few times he wrote you were John or Doctor Watson of course but after that it was always my John. I have so many letters and each one is full of you. He loved you John, even if he didn’t say it. You meant everything to him and it didn’t surprise me. I knew from when he was very small that he’d only ever bring one person home to me. He’d started to promise to bring you here though.”

John sighed, using his free hand to rub at his eyes, “Please don’t see anything romantic in this Evangeline,” he said, “We weren’t…I’m not gay.”

“Neither was Sherlock.”

“But you just said…”

“That he loved you,” she said, “Does that mean he or you need some sort of label applied to you? Sherlock was Sherlock and he fell in love.”

John felt his throat constrict as his mind threw up unbidden so many images of his friend, simple looks given a new meaning, every touch however subtle reanalysed. He remembered most vividly running through the streets of London when they had both been arrested, Moriarty and his lies having undermined Sherlock so far as to turn even Lestrade against him. Handcuffed to one another it had been nearly impossible for them to keep in time until Sherlock had told him to take his hand. As friends they’d barely even shaken hands and hugs were rare at best, more a moment of relief when they had escaped injury or fatality than a conscious expression of friendship.

John’s heart stuttered in his chest and he set both the letter and the photograph down on the table before he got quickly to his feet, “You have to excuse me,” he said hurrying passed Evangeline, “I’m sorry.”

“John!” said Evangeline, hurrying after him, “John please come back.”

Instinct almost forced him to turn but he knew he could not look into Evangeline’s eyes and not see Sherlock looking back at him. He hurried from the house into the familiar winding pathways of the vast sprawling gardens but for once the walk did not bring him comfort. He trawled through the grounds for hours but soon his body reminded him that he had missed both breakfast and lunch and he forced himself to return to the house if only to stave off a fainting fit.

Evangeline had been waiting for him as he returned inside, her expression anxious and John was reminded once more of her son, the worry so similar to the expression he had seen on his face when John had stood before him wearing the waistcoat covered in explosives. He had pushed aside his discomfort though, wanting to comfort Evangeline as he saw the grief in her eyes and for once he was better able to read her than she him; the woman before him terrified of losing someone else she cared for. They had both put on a brave face over dinner but John had never been more glad than when the butler had entered to inform his mistress that she had a visitor. 

John didn’t catch the visitor’s name but he knew it came with a title and double barrel and chose to beat a swift retreat above stairs while he left his hostess to entertain. The house once more felt too huge to him as he lay back on the ornate bed, his mind spinning over the revelations of the day, his thoughts tempered by the grief that still threatened him every time he thought of his lost friend. His mind turned back to Sherlock’s letter to his mother, two words from it standing out more than others. My John. His name in Sherlock’s elegant hand.

Another image flashed in John’s mind, stood on the stairs at Baker Street as Mrs Hudson handed him a letter bearing his name. His mind took the two pieces of text, his name on the envelope and his name on the letter. He opened his eyes, adrenaline rushing his veins as he tumbled off the bed and scrambled for his jacket. He tore the letter from the pocket, his eyes filling as he looked down at the strong handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out the insides, surprised to find not a letter but a piece of normal printer paper and a scrap of lined paper clearly torn from a notebook. He saw handwriting on the note paper and opened that first, finding nothing but directions. 

‘The Cottage under the hill and by the well. Dún Chaoin, Co. Kerry.’

The final four words were familiar to John, remembering the text before he smashed his old phone. With his heart in his throat he opened the folded piece of printer paper, surprised when he saw an airline ticket made out in his own name, a flight booked from Gatwick to Farranfore, Co. Kerry on the approaching Monday morning. He stared down at the print in shock, his hands trembling as he thought of his friend having sent him a way to reach him. He felt the smile on his face but it swiftly fell as he pulled his wallet from his pocket, pulling out the folded newspaper obituary Mycroft had sent to The Times days after Sherlock’s death. Sherlock was dead and however similar the writing on the letter was he knew his friend couldn’t be waiting for him on the other end of the flight.

He folded the ticket and the letter and headed to his bag, stuffing them into a pocket with a promise to himself that whatever was in his own head he would not give Evangeline Holmes any false hope that her son was alive.


	3. The Village

John looked out of the window of the aeroplane, nothing but sea beneath him and he groaned to himself once more, wondering why on Earth he had boarded the flight. The ticket he had received could have been from anyone with any intention and he knew he should have left it alone. He had done. He had pointedly not gone to Gatwick Airport on the day prescribed by the ticket and he had not boarded the flight. He had stayed at home in Baker Street and glared at the offending paperwork instead, willing it to reveal its secrets. He had thought of taking it to Mycroft or Lestrade, the first maybe able to set up some sort of surveillance to find the sender and the latter able to offer at least some form of back up should the nutter responsible turn out to have more violent tendencies than most. He had stubbornly contacted neither, they had been forgiven somewhat but he found his trust in them was weak at best and he was determined to deal with it alone.

The time of the flight had come and gone but the thought brought John no peace, the niggling voice at the back of his mind arguing that he would never know. The writing on the envelope had been so much like Sherlock’s and the manner was so like him, but John had watched him fall, seen him bloodied and broken on the pavement outside Bart’s. Sherlock Holmes was dead. 

Sherlock Holmes was a magician.

John had shaken away the thought, even Sherlock couldn’t have survived such a fall even if the hard pavement had been a substantial crash mat. Longing made him see things that weren’t there, he wanted it to be Sherlock sending him messages, inviting him to search him out. Of all the people he could call to, Sherlock Holmes would reach out to him but John knew that was ridiculous. Sherlock was imminently practical and never sentimental, he would contact Mycroft who could make anyone disappear or reappear as someone else as easily as he changed his tie or he would contact Lestrade who could help clear his name, he would contact Evangeline and tell her he was alive but would never come home. 

For two days he had existed but the pull of the scribbled address kept hold of him and each night he had come home in a mild panic that Mrs Hudson would have tidied the flat and thrown it away. It had never moved though, firmly held to the mantle by the knife that pierced the paper but not the elegant handwriting. Two days was all it took though before he found himself at his computer, card in hand and booking a flight to Farranfore. He had called Bart’s and booked some last minute leave, receiving the obligatory grumbles from the HR department but it had been granted, knowing that whatever he found he would need some time to recuperate. 

That’s how he found himself now sat on the cramped budget airline, watching the Irish Sea pass beneath him as he headed towards his destination. He had arrived at one of the smallest airports he had ever seen, even the landing strips in Afghanistan looking more serviceable than the one he’d come to. He paid the issue little mind though, swiftly heading out into the blustery weather and hiring a car. He considered finding a hotel somewhere nearer and beginning his journey in the morning but curiosity won the better of him and he adjusted the car to be comfortable enough for the drive before him.

After three hours he was cursing anything and everything he could think of, the vile weather, the winding roads, the sheep crossing said winding road, the numerous road signs that seemed to want him to go the wrong way before they gave up even being in English. Finally though one side of the mountains seemed to fall away and to his left stretched the Atlantic Ocean, wild and raging in the wind. He came onto a small village the name he recognised in text at least, Don Chaoin, the village from the text two months before and the more recent letter. He slowed the car to a crawl, passing through the streets but he saw nothing that fitted the description of the cottage. 

Gradually the houses dwindled and once more he found himself surrounded by countryside without a house in sight. He had all but given it up for lost and was about to turn the car around when the rumble of a tractor caught his attention. He slowed to let the lumbering vehicle pass him, cursing the high beam of its headlights but as his vision cleared he saw the brighter lights fall on a little stone dwelling tucked beneath the hill and beside a stone well. He allowed himself a small smile of triumph and pulled the car over, killing the engine and stepping out into the dark street. He pulled out a small torch from his pocket as he turned his collar up against the wind, a few raindrops splattering on his face as he left the shelter of the vehicle. He headed to the cottage, the building ramshackle and clearly having seen better days and he was almost sure that it would be considered uninhabitable. He knocked on the chipped paint of the door and waited but no one answered. He waited a few more moments before he moved to the small window, drapes drawn across it and preventing him from looking in. No light filtered through the small gaps however and he knew there was no one within.

He cursed, realising that he had been led on a wild goose chase, and pulled the crumpled letter out of his pocket, tearing it into tiny pieces and treading it into the mud outside the cottage. He turned to head back to the car, just as the heavens opened and he hurried his steps to avoid the raindrops. He jammed the key into the ignition but the engine only groaned before it sputtered and died. He slammed the steering wheel with a curse, almost surprised when Lestrade or one of the other miscreants he was unfortunate enough to know didn’t appear with a camera phone and the revelation of some dramatic ruse.

He slumped against the console, burying his face in his arms as he fought back the tears that were pricking his eyes. He had never allowed himself to hope but part of him had still wished that he would find his friend at the end of the trail and he felt himself breaking when it had proved false. He forced himself to sit upright and shook away the upset, trying the ignition again but the car refused to jump into life.

“All I need,” he muttered, looking out at the rain with a grimace.

He knew he could wait out the storm in the car but he also knew Ireland in the rain and didn’t fancy spending the night on the roadside. He had seen a pub at the other end of the village and brightened at the thought that he could at least find a drink to calm his nerves if nothing else. He reached over to the passenger seat and took up his bag, mentally counting to three before he headed out into the rain. He all but sprinted the length of the village but was still more than a little soaked when he reached the tiny pub.

He hurried inside, the warmth hitting him immediately but so did the silence. The place was small and somewhat unkempt with none of the furniture matching and most of it looking as thought it had seen better days in the eighties. John had been in many an Irish bar, both socially and on rest days when he had served in Northern Ireland but they had always been the ones designed for tourists; this was clearly a venue for the locals. He knew he was being regarded as a stranger but the interest was soon lost and the patrons turned back to their conversations as he headed to the bar. There was a woman tending the bar, her air alone giving her a position of authority and John didn’t need much to determine that she was the landlady. She was in her mid-fifties, her auburn hair shot through with grey but her eyes still sparkled with youth as she turned to him with a warm smile.

“Dia duit, conas is féidir liom cabhrá leat?”

“I’m sorry,” said John with a frown, “I don’t speak Gaelic.”

“Not many English do,” she said, her accent soft but pronounced, “You’re a long way off the tourist track here stranger. The beach will be too treacherous for you to go down to now.”

“I wasn’t heading to the beach,” said John, “My hire car broke down the other end of the village.”

“Ah you’ll be wanting Padraig to be having a look at that come morning, if it’ll move again he’ll get it to,” she said, “Guess you’ll be wanting a room.”

“If you do them,” said John.

“For you, twenty Euro and I’ll throw in your supper.”

John smiled, “That’s a deal I can’t refuse,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet but the hand on his arm stopped him.

“Pay in the morning pet, all I need now’s your name and your signature,” she said, opening a dog-eared old book and turning it to him.

John took up the pen and quickly wrote his name, signing beside it before he turned the book back to the landlady. She hadn’t even had a chance to look down when a crash echoed from the cellar below, a muffled curse and the clang of metal on metal following it.

“Someone doesn’t sound very happy,” said John.

The landlady smiled, “That’s just my lad,” she said, “He’s been a beast for the past two days. Heart broken I’d bet you but he’ll get over it in a week or so I’m sure. Now then…”

“ Now then…” said John as she trailed off, her eyes on the page before her.

“Doctor John Watson,” she said, her eyes brightening as she raised them once more, “Let me just get the key to your room. Would you like a drink?”

“Pint, please,” said John.

“Wait right there,” she said before she headed to the open hatch in the floor and shouted down to the person below in her own tongue.

The response was swift and the crashing of barrels ceased. Unable to understand them John instead reached for his phone, hearing someone emerge from the cellar as he scrolled through the messages he had received since the Irish network connected him to a server. He was surprised he even had a signal in the remote village but took the opportunity to check his emails. He smiled at one from Evangeline, the woman not used to computers but Mycroft had insisted on her having one and she treated John now and then to a message or two. He had several from Lestrade as well as some from his work colleagues but none took his interest. He paused though as he came across a message from one of his friends still on deployment in Afghanistan. The email detailed a bloody fire-fight his platoon had gone through, the casualties including some of John’s friends but their wounds were not serious. He was so engrossed in the tale that he barely registered the pint being set next to his hand on the bar before a voice far deeper than the landlady’s spoke.

“Beidh go four Euro fiche le do thoil.”

“Sorry I don’t speak…”

“That will be four Euros please, though of course you’ll give me twenty, you’ve not brought anything in cash since you arrived and you came at too short notice to change your money anywhere other than Gatwick. The bureau de change doesn’t tend to give smaller notes unless specifically requested.”

John felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the familiar timbre met his senses. He didn’t dare look up, fearing the expression on his face if he did so but his breathing hitched as his heart hammered as though in want of freedom from his ribs. He saw the pale, long fingered hand curl around his wrist and felt his throat constrict against a cry.

“John.”

One word, his name, seemed to snap him from his trance and he looked up to meet two familiar steel blue eyes, framed by pale alabaster skin and wild black curls. John blinked in surprise, having to force himself to breathe as his vision swam.

“Sherlock?”

“Hello,” was the only response but John knew the voice, John knew the teasing look in the pale eyes even thought it was tempered by something unfamiliar.

“But you’re dead,” said John before he snatched his hand away, “You’re dead.”

“Evidently one of us is mistaken then,” said Sherlock, his expression moving to concern in a heartbeat, “John calm down. I’ll explain.”

“No!” cried John, backing away as swiftly as he could, stumbling over a low stool in his haste.

He didn’t stop as he picked himself up, running to the door and out into the rain-soaked night, barely hearing the call of his own name from behind him. He’d not got far down the road when he was stopped, long arms wrapping around him from behind and ceasing his momentum. He struggled for freedom but height gave his assailant the upper hand and he relented, not realising until he did that his body was wracked with sobs as tears tumbled down his face.

“John,” came the voice once more in his ear, “Stay still and listen to me. I’m not dead. You can see me, hear me, feel me. I’m real believe your eyes, not your memories. It wasn’t real John, I didn’t die.”

“I saw you!” cried John, using the moment to wrench himself out of his hold, “I saw you fall. You told me you’d jump and I saw you hit the ground. I saw you dead on the pavement Sherlock. You were dead. You were covered in blood and I…”

“Scotoma,” said Sherlock cutting him off, “You saw exactly what your brain told you to see. I told you I was going to jump and you saw me on the pavement. You saw what I needed you to see.”

John was silent, taking in the man before him even as the rain lashed around them. There was little change in the person he would have sworn he saw die six months before, still the same tall pale figure and black curls even though they were slicked down by the rain but his clothes were so far removed from what he was used to that it unnerved him further still. Gone were the smartly tailored suits, swapped for jeans and what he would have sworn was a faded Rolling Stones t-shirt, the look was at once alien and comforting; different but alive.

“I saw you die,” he said once more, “I went to your funeral. I’ve put flowers on your grave every Sunday. I’ve been mourning you for six bloody months and you’ve been holidaying in fucking Ireland.”

“Its not a holiday,” snapped Sherlock, “And its been five months. I spent the first month in England.”

“I don’t care if you spent the first month in Timbuktu! You lied to us Sherlock, you put us through Hell and for what?”

“For the fun of it John, of course,” said Sherlock bitterly, his hand running through his soaked hair, “Why do you think I did it? I wanted to keep you safe and this was the only choice I had.”

“You had every choice. You could have got word to me, to Mycroft, Mrs Hudson for God’s sake but instead you left us to suffer,” said John, “And I could almost forgive you for doing it to me, you never once considered my feelings in anything you did but for what you’ve done to Evangeline I can never ever forgive you. Dammit Sherlock your own mother believed you were dead.”

Sherlock stilled, his gaze dropped to the floor, “I never meant to hurt her,” he said finally, his voice almost too quiet over the rain.

“Well you did,” said John, “I doubt even you were bold enough to gate crash your own funeral but if you had done you would have seen the state of her and I had to pick up the pieces because your brother is as useless as you are. She was in bits Sherlock, utter bits and you made her that way. Even now she can’t…even now…”

Sherlock span on a heel until his back towards him, pacing to a nearby gatepost before he turned violently once more.

“I’m sorry!”

The words were all but screamed across the distance that separated them, negating even the howl of the wind and John finally saw the tears mingling with the rain on his friend’s face. Anger still rushed through his veins but the sight pulled another emotion to temper it. He had so rarely seen Sherlock look so vulnerable and relief flooded him that he was alive, alive to shout at him in the pouring rain as neither of them realised how soaked they were. John felt his fist unfurl where they had been clenched at his side and he shook his head.

“I can’t believe its you,” he said quietly, “I’m half convinced I’ve gone mad.”

“You were mad enough to come after a dead man.”

“But why disappear?” said John, “Why all of this?”

“Moriarty,” said Sherlock, his voice taking on a far darker tone as he looked around himself as though expecting to find someone watching them, “Come inside and we can talk.”

Without waiting for an answer Sherlock began to head back to the pub, turning only when he realised no one was following. He stood stock-still and John was torn, answers only offered if he followed but he was still disturbed by the sight of his friend. He rallied his courage and squared his shoulders, heading to the pub and barely passing a glance over the younger mad he passed him. The hubbub of the bar seemed intrusive in comparison to the street but it ceased as they both entered. The landlady bustled over to them and ushered them back behind the bar. 

“I gave Doctor Watson room four, Sherlock,” she said, pressing a key and John’s bag into the younger man’s hands, “I can cope downstairs for the rest of the night.”

“Thank you Aoife,” he said, the pair sharing a small smile before he ushered John up the stairs before him.

They climbed in silence, John letting Sherlock precede him when they reached the landing and following him to the room he had been given. The bedroom was simple and rustic but warm, the heat reminding John that he’d been standing out in the rain for far too long. Shadows chased along the walls, the only light coming from the fire burning in the grate. He stood silently in the centre of the room as Sherlock disappeared behind another door, coming back with two white towels and passing one to his friend while he rubbed the other over his saturated hair.

“You’re wondering why Aoife called me by my real name,” said Sherlock, grey eyes turned on him with a familiar penetrating gaze.

John sighed in exasperation, sitting down on the bed as his legs threatened not to support him, “I really don’t want this to be a one sided conversation,” he said, “So for goodness sake turn it off and let me ask my own questions.”

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback by his tone but nodded all the same, “Fine, ask me your questions.”

John was silent for a moment before he finally spoke, “You’re hiding here,” he said, “But Aoife called your Sherlock and that’s not a common name so she at least knows who you are but you wouldn’t risk using your own name around people who would relate the name to the papers.”

A small smile touched the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as he leaned back against the window ledge, hands held before him in such a familiar pose that John almost forgot the months that had separated them.

“And…” he said.

“This is a Gaelic speaking village, on the tourist track but not a main hub,” said John, “They won’t have much interest in the English press. Hiding in plain site?”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, “It was this or a Bedouin tribe. The whiskey’s better here.”

John couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped him but he sobered quickly, “But why does that Aoife woman know who you are? Why trust her?”

“Because I must,” said Sherlock turning to face the window before he turned back, raking his gaze over him, “You’ve not been sleeping John and you’ve only been back in London two days. Even the peace of my mother’s house hasn’t been enough to help you sleep well.”

“Don’t tell me, the piece of lint on my jeans is from your mother’s parlour?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “But your jumper smells of Mummy’s perfume and you’d have taken your clothes to the launderette if you’d been in London on Sunday.”

“I didn’t really give much consideration to what I was wearing when I rushed for a flight,” said John, knowing that his questions would continue to be deflected as Sherlock began to pace the floor between the window and the bathroom door.

“You caught the five forty from Gatwick to Farranfore,” he said, “You were meant to be on the eleven twenty flight two days ago.”

“Well I’ve not got into the habit of trusting random plane tickets sent to me in the post,” said John, following Sherlock with his eyes until the detective’s frantic pace as he settled on one piece of furniture only to move swiftly to another began to make him dizzy.

He got to his feet and grabbed his arms, forcing him down into a nearby chair and pressing a hand to his chest to keep him there.

“There were so many ways you could have contacted me Sherlock, made me more certain. I would have come if I’d been sure,” he said, “You’ve been here for five months and yet you left me no clue that you were alive. I’ve been to hell and back and you’ve been here. Why do that to me?”

“I couldn’t take the risk,” said Sherlock, taking hold of his wrist and pushing his hand away, “I didn’t know if you were being watched.”

“Moriarty is dead Sherlock and everyone else believed that you were. You could have sent me a bloody postcard and no one would have known,” said John pushing him back once more as the younger man tried to get to his feet, “No you don’t, you’re going to sit there and tell me everything that happened from the beginning. You’re not going to talk in riddles and you’re not going to show off and tell me what I had for dinner on Saturday night…”

“Pheasant, its mid season and Mummy would have had them hanged for long enough,” said Sherlock, silenced as a hand was placed over his mouth.

“No. Just stop that,” said John, “Just tell me what happened Sherlock, my nerves can’t take much else.”

Sherlock drew his feet up onto the chair, his eyes flashing with petulance as wrapped his arms around his knees. The movement drew John’s attention to the detective’s attire once more, wondering if he ever could have imagined the once immaculately attired Sherlock Holmes to be sporting jeans and pale blue Chucks.

“You look so different,” he said without thinking.

“Well shifting barrels and pulling pints doesn’t call for good tailoring,” said Sherlock, “Besides, I was reliant on Molly Hooper as a stylist.”

“Molly knows you’re alive?”

“Molly’s the reason I am alive,” said Sherlock, “She got me out and got me here…”

John felt his anger rise once more and got to his feet, turning his back on the chair, “You trusted Molly over me?” he said, “You told her you were alive and left me to suffer? Molly who you wouldn’t say two words of kindness to if your life depended on it.”

“Yes Molly, the woman I was always horrible to,” said Sherlock bitterly using John’s distraction to leap from the chair and resume his pacing, “Molly who was only safe because everyone thought I hated her. She was the only one left I could rely on, the only one I could trust because everyone else was in danger. I’m only glad I was as cruel as I was to her because caring about people only threw them in his path. I couldn’t talk to you because he’d already got to you and I had to stop it.”

“Riddles Sherlock!” said John, his voice rising to a shout as he turned back to him, “Please just give me a straight answer. Why couldn’t you tell me what you were doing? You called me before you… you made me watch. I was your friend and you did that to me. Why would you do that to me Sherlock?”

“Because Moriarty had a gun pointed at your head and if I’d put one foot wrong I would have lost you,” said Sherlock, his voice cracking before he choked it back as he ran a hand through his black hair, “You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade; all three of you in danger if I didn’t comply. He thought he’d covered every base but he forgot Molly because I was cruel to her. She was the only person I could trust without putting their life at risk.”

John felt his anger cool as his words hit home, “But I was never threatened, I…”

“Snipers, assassins,” said Sherlock, “Three of them poised to kill you and the others if I didn’t jump.”

John shook his head, “No, he couldn’t have had that sort of power.”

“Couldn’t he?” said Sherlock, “He had…has people everywhere and I couldn’t…he knew I couldn’t…he knew me better than anyone John and he knew I would never willingly sacrifice any of you for me. That was my choice; my life in return for yours. Fair deal.”

John rubbed his eyes, unsurprised by the wetness he found there as the other man came to a pause in front of the window, his eyes trained on the rain outside.

“Jesus Sherlock,” he muttered hesitating a moment before he set a hand on his shoulder, feeling the younger man tense at the touch.

It seemed to be the catalyst thought as Sherlock turned quickly and John found himself pulled into a bone crushing hug that he returned with a desperation brought on by months of mourning.

“I’m sorry John,” said Sherlock, “I’m so sorry.”

Although he did not cry John could feel the tremor in Sherlock’s body, fear and fatigue clearly warring in the detective as six months of hiding ended. He finally coaxed him back, managing a small smile as he met the pale eyes.

“For a genius, you’re a real idiot,” he said, stepping back until they were free of one another but in comfortable proximity, “Whatever has happened, whatever you’re going to tell me don’t be sorry about it. You’re alive and that’s what matters.”

“Of all the people who would forgive me John…” said Sherlock looking to the ground once more.

“Just tell me what happened,” said John, “And we’ll go from there.”

Sherlock stepped back until he hit the bed and slumped down to sit on it, casting his gaze to his shoes but his voice was clear, “I knew Moriarty would force my hand somehow and I knew he wanted me dead, by my own hand so that I’d be discredited. He’d rooted out every weakness, my vanity, my temper, the people who mattered and he used it all against me but he didn’t factor Molly. While you were at risk, she and I were working. Brilliant Molly Hooper was the reason I got away,” he said with a small smile before his expression turned teasing as he raised his gaze to his friend, “I won’t tell you how we did it, it was Molly’s idea so its Molly’s to tell but I’m surprised you were never suspicious when it was her name on the paperwork that pronounced me dead. Despite how cruel I was to her do you really think she would have been in any sort of state to be that professional.”

John sat on the floor in front of him, shock leaving his legs weak as he realised how obvious the clue had been, “I wasn’t in much of a state to do anything. I don’t think I could remember my own name for the first few days,” he said, “Now I think about it though, she was terribly calm over everything. At your funeral she…”

“Finished the eulogy for you,” said Sherlock, “I know, she told me. I’m glad it was you and not Mycroft who wrote it. I couldn’t have done any of this without Molly. She smuggled me out of Bart’s and I laid low at hers for the first month but I was too close to you all and I couldn’t risk being found so we came here. I really should speak to my brother about border security because if Molly Hooper can smuggle someone in her car boot then there’s no hope. We crossed to Dublin from Holyhead and then we drove down here. We met Aoife, I got set up in the cottage and Molly went home. She calls every week to keep me up to date.”

“Molly the people smuggler,” said John with a laugh. “No I just can’t see it. Why here though, the back of beyond?”

“Aoife is Molly’s second cousin,” said Sherlock, “This place is so out of the way and they’re not really bothered with the English press, that much you worked out. It was easy enough to disappear.”

“But you living so quietly,” said John almost sadly, “I’m surprised I didn’t find you half mad.”

“Madder than I am already,” said Sherlock, “It was a culture shock, I won’t lie and I think I was quite insufferable but Aoife’s a vicious thing. She manages me almost as well as you used to.”

John laughed at the put upon expression on his friend’s face, “Well I’m glad someone has the reins on you.”

Silence descended but the atmosphere was thick with the unspoken words, so many conversations that needed to be had but none of them were forthcoming. John kept raising his gaze though, not quite able to believe that he was truly in the company of his friend. Sherlock’s silence was disconcerting but John didn’t need to be a doctor to see shock when it was played out so blatantly before him. The man had lost none of his mannerisms but they were dulled, Moriarty having shaken his confidence and John couldn’t help but think how much younger the other man looked when he was stripped of his confidence. This level of prolonged silence had never existed between them unless Sherlock was so deeply immersed in a case, and John was almost surprised when there was no cry of boredom issuing forth after several minutes. 

His position on the floor was far from comfortable and an ache began to set in, reminding him that he had not slept well for days and had not long been utterly drenched by the rain. He shifted as best he could but tried not to make any noise, the atmosphere calling for quietude still. The movement however didn’t go unnoticed and Sherlock got to his feet before offering his hand to him. John took it and pulled himself up, the momentum bringing him closer to his friend than he had expected and he stepped back swiftly.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re tired,” said Sherlock, “And you need some time. Get some rest, the pub clears out by eleven and its only locals in tonight so it won’t be loud. If you need anything ask Aoife.”

“Where will you be?” said John, feeling a panic seize him that he couldn’t rationalise.

“The cottage,” said Sherlock, “Unless Aoife collars me when I’m leaving, if she does I’ll be in the bar. I’ll be by first thing in the morning though and we can talk more.”

John nodded, unused to his friend being so accommodating and it disconcerted him no end, “Ok,” he said at a loss for anything else, “Goodnight then.”

Sherlock clearly hadn’t missed his hesitation and a small smile quirked at his lips, “I could stay and answer all your questions before you’ve thought of them to ask but I’ve had six months being used to being quite alive while you’ve had two hours at most,” he said, “Get some rest John, it’ll save me having to repeat myself.”

John managed to mimic his smile at that, “You’ve not changed, even with the new look.”

“Sleep well John,” said Sherlock, his hand on the door, “I will be back in the morning.”

“You’d better be,” said John, chatter filtering in as the door opened, “Goodnight Sherlock.”

A small smile was the response before the detective slipped into the hallway, the noise and light quieted as he closed the door behind him. John almost went after him as the room felt too quiet and empty but he knew Sherlock was right, he was too tired to truly take in all that he had gone through but even with that in mind he knew he would take an age to get to sleep. He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes but he felt too agitated, getting to his feet he crossed to the window and peered out onto the village road below. He recognised the route he had driven down and could almost see in his mind’s eye at least the small cottage at the far end of the village. He couldn’t believe that his friend could live in such a place but then movement caught his gaze below and he saw Sherlock’s familiar figure heading away from the pub.

Before he quite knew what he was doing he had flicked the catch on the window and pushed it open, “Sherlock!” he called, his voice loud in the silence of the village.

The younger man paused and turned, raising a hand to cover his eyes in an attempt to ward off the falling rain.

“Don’t disappear to Timbuktu or anything,” called John, knowing despite the distance that Sherlock was smiling.

“I’m glad to see you too John,” he called back, “Now go to bed.”

John watched as his friend turned once more, his tall figure missing the long great coat he had once worn but still carrying a majesty few could muster. Only when the darkness had swallowed him did John turn from the window, shutting out the rain as he finally headed to the comfort of the bed.


	4. Revelations

John woke slowly, feeling warm and drowsy, testament he was sure to the first night he had spent free of visions of his friend leaping to his death. 

“Sherlock.”

The name was on his lips before he even realised he had uttered it and John sat up swiftly to check he was alone in the room, dreading that Aoife or worse Sherlock himself had heard his sleepy mumblings. As his mind lingered on his friend a cold dread settled in his stomach, wondering if the night before had been a dream. He had seen Sherlock fall, seen him smashed on the pavement outside Bart’s, watched his coffin lowered into the earth as he had tossed a single red rose down onto it with a wordless farewell. John felt his eyes prick with tears; surely he had dreamt their reunion despite the room he found himself in.

He was jolted from his thoughts as he heard a crash from downstairs and he acted on instinct, running to the door and throwing it open. He heard a flurry of harsh Gaelic curses, Aoife’s voice ringing throughout the pub, the woman clearly berating someone. John could not make out a word of it but two clear words rang out at the very end and they put the world to rights for him once more.

“…Sherlock Holmes!”

John laughed to himself, “Some things don’t change,” he said, remembering when it was either him or Mrs Hudson berating the youngest member of their odd little household for his misdemeanours.

He hurried through his morning routine, dressing in a pair of jeans and a snug jumper, the air slightly chilled despite the sun that filtered through the window. He left the room neat and ordered, military training not easily forgotten, before he headed down the narrow stairs to the rooms below. He had missed much when he had followed Sherlock upstairs the night before, the slightly worn carpet and yellowed walls that seemed to have once been white before the tobacco smoke had reached them. The stairs led him to one side of the bar, the cellar hatch open to his right and he could hear the voices echoing up from below.

He hesitated for a moment but decided that he would be welcomed if he went down to them, using his hands to steady himself on the narrow steps as he descended into the musty cellar. The sight that greeted him was as he expected, large barrels connected to the pipes that led up to the bar and boxes filled with bottled drinks and bagged bar snacks but was out of place was the copious amount of what looked like blood that was splattered all over a large metal stove. John felt no panic though as he saw both Sherlock and Aoife safe and well as they attempted to clear up the mess. Aoife paused in her efforts to frown at the man beside her before she took up a tea towel that hung over her shoulder and clocked him soundly round the head with it. 

John couldn’t help but laugh as his friend yelped at the attack, the sound catching their attention.

“What on earth happened here?” he said.

“It was an experiment,” said Sherlock, looking more than a little sheepish as he eyed Aoife’s tea towel suspiciously, “And it was going well.”

“And it can go well into the bin,” said Aoife, “I don’t have you here for messing about, now get on with you. You can finish here whilst Doctor Watson has his breakfast. Did you sleep well my dear?”

“Very well, thank you,” said John.

“Well then, upstairs with you and we’ll see what can be got for breakfast,” said Aoife, coaxing him back towards the steps with a wave of the vicious tea towel, “Sherlock, I expect my cellar to be serviceable before I see your face upstairs.”

John turned back as Aoife headed up the stairs to see the petulant scowl his friend shot at her back but it soon changed to a playful wink as he caught his eye.

“I won’t be long,” said Sherlock, “Aoife makes a cup of tea to rival Mrs Hudson’s so I’d recommend you don’t miss it.”

“I can stay and help if…”

“Doctor Watson you let him deal with that on his own,” came Aoife’s voice from above.

Sherlock laughed as the tone affected even the hardened veteran before him, “She’s a mean shot even from a distance,” he said.

“I guess I’ll see you in a bit then,” said John as he followed the sound of Aoife’s voice back into the bar.

He was soon bustled into a seat at one of the tables and presented with a cup of tea that lived up to the expectations he had been given. He sat in comfortable silence whilst Aoife bustled away in a small room behind the bar, the fragrances of a cooked breakfast soon permeating the air and reminding John that he’d missed dinner the night before. He heard the occasional clang from the cellar downstairs and was sure that whatever his friend was doing it probably wasn’t entirely the task that he had been given but the noises comforted him greatly, keeping the reality he was coming to accept firmly in his perception. 

Aoife had soon returned from the kitchen and John smiled at the mammoth breakfast that had been put before him, sure it would have fed the three of them rather than him alone. 

“There would have been blood pudding save for the great detective splattering the stock all over the walls of the cellar,” said Aoife, “The man’s a liability.”

John laughed, “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said, “I’m surprised the place is still standing. How many times have you had the dawn chorus of bored?”

Aoife smiled, “A fair few times,” she said, “Though I’m glad of it. Better that than the state he got here in, all quiet and nervous and fretting about everyone he’d left behind.”

John was sure he would have choked had he taken a bite at her words, unable to imagine Sherlock in such a state until his mind dragged up memories of Baskerville when he had watched his friend doubting his very sanity after his encounter with the fabled hound. He almost got to his feet and headed back down the stairs to Sherlock but he knew it would only end up in an awkward silence.

“Now don’t you fret,” said Aoife, “You’ve seen him and he’s alright. Its you that’s kept him going though, its all been John this and John that. Only time he’s got bad again was when he’s been worrying for you after Molly’s called. He was happy you’d gone to his mother’s but worried about money for you when you went back to London. He sent you those messages in the hope you’d follow, he knew his mother would have offered you the money and he was worried that hadn’t taken it.”

“He needn’t have worried,” said John, “I got myself a job at Bart’s soon after.”

“And who put you onto the job?” said Aoife peering over the rim of her own teacup.

John frowned and then his eyes widened in surprise, “I got an email from Molly,” he said, “You mean Sherlock…”

“He asked Molly to keep an eye out for anything, knew you would be happy there,” said Aoife, “Upset him when Molly reported back that you still weren’t your old self though. She rang just over a week ago and said how tired you look and I’ve never seen your man in such a state. Blamed himself he did and we had to stop him from heading straight to the airport. Couldn’t stop his scheming though and he’d soon charmed Molly’s card details out of her so he could book that ticket for you. Did four shifts down on Eoin’s farm just so he could give me the money to send her for them.”

“And then I didn’t turn up,” said John.

“But you’re here now,” came a voice from behind him.

“My cellar better be clean my lad,” said Aoife, as John turned to see his friend leaning against the bar.

“You wouldn’t recognise it,” said Sherlock, leaving the bar and heading towards them his hand coming to rest on John’s shoulder briefly before he took the seat beside him.

“Will you be wanting any breakfast?”

“No I’m good,” said Sherlock as he snagged a piece of toast from his friend’s plate, earning himself a scowl.

“You’ve not changed a bit,” said John, even as he pushed a couple of slices of bacon to the edge of his plate after the toast.

“Aoife I’m borrowing the bike this morning,” said Sherlock, purloining John’s half finished cup of tea, grimacing at the lack of sweetness but unrelenting in his thievery.

“You mean, dear Aoife may I borrow the bike this morning?”

“Semantics,” muttered Sherlock, “You’ll let me borrow it.”

“Oh will I now?” said Aoife, “Pots done?”

“First thing,” said Sherlock.

“Barrels changed?”

“Uh huh,” was the muttered response over the rim of the teacup.

“Be back by the tea time shift?”

Sherlock dropped his head back with a groan, “Aoife Malone! Don’t be dull,” he said, “You know I’ve done everything and you know I’ll be back.”

“Get on with you then,” said Aoife, “I’ve got better things to do than baby sit you lads. Don’t go mad though.”

“We won’t,” said Sherlock as Aoife got to her feet and headed back behind the bar.

“Are we going somewhere?” said John, saying nothing as Sherlock purloined a final piece of toast from his plate.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, getting to his feet, “Come on, get done with that and we can be off.”

John pushed his plate away from him, knowing he would have to speak to Aoife about portion sizes if he was to have any hope of fitting in his clothes by the evening. Sherlock was already behind the bar; rustling about before he reappeared with a small laptop in his hands.

“Come on John,” he said, heading to the main door.

“Where are we going?” said John even as he found himself following the taller man on instinct, “Do I need anything?”

Silence was the response but he followed Sherlock all the same, stepping out into the crisp clear morning, the rain of the night before having left the village looking clean and bright. John paused for a moment to take in the sights he had missed before, the village made up of two neat rows of houses, the only anomalies being a shop and a small garage with a familiar car parked outside.

“That’s my hire car,” he said, turning to see Sherlock throwing a large groundsheet off what would have been an expensive motorbike twenty years before.

“Nice to see your powers of observation haven’t dwindled in my absence.”

“Care to explain how it got there?”

Sherlock tossed him a set of keys John hadn’t even realised he was missing, “Pick pocketed you for them last night then Padraig and I pushed it down the road from the cottage this morning,” he said, “It’ll be functioning again by dinner.”

“Exactly what time did you get up this morning?” said John, as Sherlock tossed the laptop into the hatch at the back of the bike before he pushed it out towards the road.

“Didn’t exactly get to bed,” said Sherlock, pretending blindness as John rolled his eyes, “I had work to do.”

John knew better than to question such a cryptic answer, climbing onto the bike behind his friend and taking hold of his waist as he kicked it into life, “Isn’t there a law about helmets?” he said, his grip tightening as the bike lurched forward.

“Even on this old thing we could outrun the Gardai,” called Sherlock over the roar of the bike, “You might want to hold on.”

John didn’t have time to answer as the bike gave a final kick and they rushed through the quiet streets with an obscene roar. They continued along the winding coastal roads for half an hour or so though John didn’t really notice the time as it passed, his mind taking the ride as a moment to come to terms with the days that he had gone through. Necessity had him pressed close to his friend’s back and even over the vibration of the bike he could feel the steady beat of his heart, proof once more of his reality. Despite the comfort of it though it also brought him a disconcerting thought, Evangeline’s words ringing in his mind especially when on the straighter roads one of Sherlock’s hands would cover his briefly before returning to the bike.

Scenery that should have taken his breath away rushed past them but John found that he could not concentrate on it, instead he kept his thoughts on the man before him; remembering the mad adventures they had shared, the companionship he had found that eclipsed every other that he had had, the agony his death had brought. He barely noticed the bike slowing to a stop until a warm hand settled once more over his.

“You better not be drooling on me.”

“What?” said John, sitting up hurriedly as he realised how close he was pressed to his friend’s back.

“I thought you’d gone to sleep,” said Sherlock, his hands gently coaxing John’s from around his waist.

“I was too busy fearing for my life to sleep,” said John, hoping the heat he felt rise to his cheeks wasn’t visible, “Where are we?”

“Take a look,” said Sherlock nodding over his shoulder.

John turned and gasped at the sight that greeted him; they stood on a high cliff over looking a natural cleft in the cliffs, jagged rocks pummelled into submission by the raging Atlantic Ocean. The water was far calmer than John was sure it could be but the tang of the salt still flew up at them, filling the air with a freshness unknown to London.

“Infinitely beguiling isn’t it?” said Sherlock.

John smiled, “I was going to say it was very pretty,” he said, “God I envy that you’ve had this to come to.”

“But you’ve had Baker Street,” said Sherlock, “I would happily trade.”

“That could almost be taken as sentiment,” said John, turning to see Sherlock suppressing a smile.

“You’re clearly mistaken,” said Sherlock, fetching the laptop from the caddy on the back of the bike, “I come to work and to think, there’s no one for miles. Here we can talk, there’s no one to hear.”

“Sherlock?” said John, seeing the darkness on his friend’s face.

“Follow me,” said Sherlock, turning to a path that descended down from the cliff edge, “I’ve not been idle when I’ve been here John. Do you remember when I was called as a witness to Moriarty’s trial?”

“I remember bailing you out when you were thrown in the cells for contempt,” said John, trying to keep his footing as they negotiated the narrow path even as Sherlock managed it with ease, “I swear you’ve got mountain goat blood in your veins, slow down a bit.”

Sherlock came to a halt with huff, turning back and offering a hand to help his friend over a particularly stubborn part of the path. John took the hand without question but released it as swiftly as he could as the warm fingers seemed to signal a tremor up his arm that settled inexplicably in his chest. Sherlock carried on without seeming to feel any discomfort and they had soon descended onto a small ledge that hung just over the beach and the swirling ocean. Clearly Sherlock had decided that conversation would have slowed them but as he came to a halt he continued as though their words had never ceased.

“I described Moriarty as a spider, the centre of a web,” he said, stretching out on a large flat rock with a practiced ease, “While I’ve been here I’ve been doing what I can to find out how far that web extended. We cut off the head so the beast is confused as it decides where it’s going to grow a new one.”

“There’s a lot of mixed metaphors in there but I get it,” said John, “Moriarty is gone and the factions he controlled are exposing themselves as they struggle to take on the leadership.”

Sherlock smiled brightly, “Perfect,” he said, opening up the laptop and turning it on, his fingers working the keys with his usual speed and precision.

“So what have you found out?”

Sherlock patted the space on the rock beside him before he turned his attention back to the laptop. John looked at the space beside his friend, the gesture entirely innocent and one that had been shared between them many times before. Whenever they had been working on a case and they had found something to share they would end up in close proximity, Sherlock often hanging over John’s shoulder to better see a laptop screen. It was so natural for them but once more Evangeline’s words sounded in his head and the thought of moving into such close proximity stilled his feet. The thoughts took all of ten seconds to race through his head and would have gone unnoticed by anyone else but Sherlock noticed, a pained laugh escaping him.

“Thank you very much Mother,” he said in exasperation, “John I’m not about to jump you.”

“What?” said John, coughing as his voice seemed intent to be an octave higher than usual.

“I have not brought you here for some clandestine liaison that your mind seems intent on creating,” said Sherlock.

John turned to look over the water, “What are you rambling about?”

“You won’t sit beside me and you’re avoiding eye contact,” said Sherlock, closing the laptop and setting it on the rock, “You’ve been hesitant of any physical contact between us since last night; I had put that down to the fact that you had believed I was dead and hadn’t quite come to terms with the truth but you have been very accepting of it in every other way. You’ve developed a friendship with my mother, both of you using the other as a prop and have formed a bond that demands you share certain secrets. My mother is unfailingly American and romantic, especially when it comes to me, and she would no doubt have been searching for some happy ending to all this. You’ve alluded more than once to the parlour where she only allows her friends, therefore she trusts you and, in the event of my death, would have shared with you secrets she would otherwise have kept. Just exactly how many of my letters did she let you read?”

“Just one,” said John, his voice hesitant, “The counterfeit ring we found just off Baker Street. You called me…”

“My John,” said Sherlock, his tone far too measured for his friend’s liking, “And just like that you’re terrified of being alone with me.”

John squared his shoulders, “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, “Its just…Sherlock you…”

“I what John?” he said, getting to his feet.

“You never said a word,” said John, “I never had the faintest idea that you… thought…felt that way.”

“Going by your reaction now I think that may have been a good thing,” said Sherlock, “I valued our friendship John, why would I compromise that?”

“All that time you kept it a secret,” said John quietly, “And I only found out after I thought you were dead. When Evangeline showed me that letter everything I thought I understood about you flew out of the window, everything we’d ever done, everything we’d ever said to each other. All through what happened with Moriarty I never ever doubted you but I doubted everything about us when I saw that letter. You were tricky at the best of times but you never lied to me when it mattered or so I thought. Eighteen months we lived together Sherlock, eighteen months and you were hiding this.”

John didn’t turn as he felt the taller man move to stand behind him, close but not touching. He waited, unsure of what to say as he found himself in one of the hardest conversations he had ever had in his life. He wanted no more than turn to his best friend, hug him and reassure the both of them that the six months that had separated them had not dwindled their friendship but the words Sherlock had written in confidence to his mother stood between them. 

“What would you have had me do John?” said Sherlock, his voice holding none of its usual arrogance, stripped bare in a way that it had only been once before when he had stood on the rooftop of Bart’s, “What would you have had me say to you? No case today John, how about I sit here and confess these ridiculous feelings that no one else has ever been able to inspire in me? My dear, straight, serial dating friend; every day it hurts that the one person who could make me understand this is the one person I can’t tell? John you’re the only friend I’ve ever had, let me ruin that by telling you about this childish infatuation? Which would you have preferred?”

“I would have preferred you had trusted me enough not to walk away from the best friendship I’d ever had if you’d talked to me,” said John, “I would have preferred the trust in I had in you to have been returned. I would have preferred that you hadn’t disappeared so that we could have met this naturally. I lost you and then I lost everything I thought I knew about you. All those wonderful memories Sherlock, gone.”

Sherlock moved to the cliff edge, sitting down so his legs hung over the ledge, “You were first and foremost my friend John,” he said, his hands gripping the stony ground, “Whatever I felt I knew I couldn’t act on it. You made it quite clear within a day of meeting me where your interests lay and I…well I don’t do relationships. I wanted you in my life John, you made it better, you made the Work better, so I hid it and told the one person I knew would keep it a secret. I never thought to factor in what might happen if I died.”

Silence reigned over the pair of them, only the crash of the waves below reminding them that the world around still existed. John watched his friend’s shoulders hunch, his head bent towards his chest as his hands tightened on the edge of the cliff. He hadn’t wanted to confront the issue between them so soon, content simply to be reunited with the man before him but he knew the future of their relationship, in whatever form, lay in his hands. For all his understanding of the fact though he could not bring a single useful phrase to mind.

“So what happens now?”

Sherlock’s voice was so low and quiet that John barely heard it and was almost sure that he had imagined it.

“Huh?”

“I don’t know how to say goodbye again John,” said Sherlock, his eyes still bent on the sea below.

“Goodbye?” said John, the words confusing him, “Sherlock what are you talking about?”

“You’re going back to England. Your car will be ready this afternoon and there’s a six thirty flight back from Farranfore.”

John felt his heart clench painfully in his chest, “You’re sending me away?”

“Surely after this you’d want to leave?”

“Do you think I’m that faithless?” said John incredulously, “I knew about the contents of that letter before I boarded the plane to come here. I knew about your feelings yet I came all the same because I hoped against hope that I’d find you. I wanted to find you. Above all else I’m your friend and I’m going nowhere.”

Sherlock looked round, steely blue eyes calculating as they regarded him, “But now that you know that I…”

“You great idiot, I’m not going to run out on you over this,” said John, feeling a smile touch his lips as he saw the surprise in his friend’s eyes, “We’ve got through so much together and if I can withstand your nicotine cravings and temper tantrums and not run screaming then I know we can find a way through this.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment before turning it back over the ocean, “Things will be awkward.”

John sat beside him, feeling his friend stiffen at the unexpected move and he felt the odd sensation of being the one with the upper hand for once in all the time they had known each other, “A little awkward maybe but we’ll take everything as it comes,” he said, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder with his own, “Just promise you’ll behave yourself.”

Sherlock laughed, quicksilver eyes darting to meet John’s before he turned them back to the ocean, “I promise to respect your virtue,” he said, the tension between them beginning to melt, “Can you truly be alright with this?”

“Mostly,” said John, “And anyway, I guess I’m a little flattered. Best looking bloke I’ve ever met has a thing for me and I have to admit the thought of Anderson’s face if he ever had an inkling is amusing.”

Sherlock laughed a little harder at that, abandoning his death grip on the cliff edge to lean back on his hands, “At least I don’t have to loathe my mother’s romantic tendencies,” he said before he shook his head, “I cannot believe she showed you that letter, she’s such a traitor.”

“I’d worry more about the photo with the bath and the bubbles when you were two.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror, “She never…”

“Oh she did,” said John, laughing at the scandalised look he received, “And the one in the pirates outfit. I think we’ve managed to get through most of the albums and then there’s the video.”

“No!” said Sherlock falling back against the rock with a groan.

“Oh don’t be like that, you made a charming Oliver.”

“I’ve never once considered matricide.”

John laughed, “She’d take you down in a heartbeat. She’s a formidable woman that Evangeline Holmes, I never would have got through the passed six months without her.”

“I’m glad you two get along,” said Sherlock, “I had wondered… I wish I could have been the one to introduce you properly but you’re friends and that’s good. I can’t imagine how mad she’d go with only Mycroft for company.”

John smiled but said nothing, silence stretching out but it was no longer uncomfortable and he allowed himself to enjoy the salty breeze that was whipped up from the water below them. Although he had dreaded the conversation he was glad that they had confronted it so soon, their reunion not hampered by the thought of it hanging over them. He knew however that they had not travelled so far to discuss unspoken feelings, Sherlock clearly wanting to share his discoveries with him in a place he believed they were safe to talk.

“So come on then, you didn’t drag me all the way out here for a heart to heart,” said John, seeing the small smile on the younger man’s face that held none of its previous tension, “What have you found out in your exile?”

“You make me sound like Napoleon,” said Sherlock, moving his hand in a gesture that clearly translated as ‘fetch me the laptop’.

“Well you were the great despot of Baker Street and the scourge of Scotland Yard,” said John, automatically obliging the regally waving hand and leaning over for the abandoned computer.

Sherlock smirked as he sat up and opened the computer, using several passwords before anything of use appeared on the screen. This time John felt little apprehension in leaning in beside him to see the screen, watching as Sherlock navigated through the myriad of files that clearly connected in his own head if not in anyone else’s.

“I haven’t got much,” he said, this tone a little sheepish, “The best resources I have are the internet and the library in Killarney to look up old newspapers. I’ve tried going into Dublin but someone recognised me. I convinced them otherwise, babbled a bit of Gaelic and they soon disappeared but it was too much of a risk. If it comes out I’m alive I put you all back in danger again.”

John felt a now familiar clench in his chest once more, “I don’t think I can ever repay what you gave up for me.”

“There’s no debt when it was me who put you in harm’s way in the first place,” said Sherlock, his eyes on the screen before him, “Besides, I hurt you nonetheless. I’ve picked up the trail of some of the more obvious connections to Moriarty but they have thrown up some interesting results of their own.”

John wasn’t surprised by the sudden turn in the conversation, Sherlock never one for heartfelt conversations and the work would always take over but he could not blame him and instead settled close to see the screen and allowed the detective beside him to take him through all that he had learned.


	5. Invasion

It took several hours for them to get through all the Sherlock had managed to research and that was without any detail on each case or connection. John was amazed at how much data the man had been able to collate with such meagre resources but he could also hear the longing and regret in the soft baritone of his voice. He missed so many chances to track down those who would be a threat, the confines of Ireland too much when the data took him to every civilised country and otherwise in the world. They paused only briefly when Sherlock had scampered back up the cliff bemoaning John’s grumbling stomach, returning with hastily wrapped sandwiches that were clearly of Aoife’s making.

John smiled as he realised how easily they had fallen into their old dynamic, the months apart and even the tension of the morning seeming to dissipate as they worked together to find at least some conclusions to the problems before them.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve managed with so little,” said John as Sherlock finished with one particular case that he had linked to his former nemesis.

“Its all academic though,” said Sherlock, “I can’t do anything from here and so they’ll just keep getting away with it. I need to be able to get out there.”

“Well I’d rather you didn’t find yourself with a gun pointed at your head again, or mine for that matter,” said John, “Until we think of a way to bring you back from the dead without a national scandal you’re stuck here. I can get you what you need from London if needs be but I won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way for this.”

“If I do nothing then he wins,” said Sherlock, “I need to get back to London, I need to be able to work John.”

Steely eyes met John’s and he saw the determination in them, realisation dawning on him as he felt himself willed to understand. Sherlock had not called for him on a whim, Sherlock needed an out, a way back and John would be the one to do it. Once more the frantic muscle in his chest twisted but it was accompanied by an empty feeling that took up residence in the pit of his stomach. He cursed his own romanticism that his friend had sent for him for purely sentimental reasons; Sherlock needed no one that wasn’t of use be it Lestrade to provide a case, Mrs Hudson a residence or John to fetch and carry and work out elaborate homecoming plans.

“So that’s why you sent for me,” he said quietly, trying to keep the hurt from his voice, “You need a way home.”

“I wouldn’t have brought you on a fool’s errand,” said Sherlock, his concentration already back on the screen as he scanned through a collection of grainy surveillance photos.

“Fine, tell me what you need me to do.”

Sherlock paused in his action, turning his gaze back once more, “You’re…upset that I want to come home?” he said before his eyes widened and he laughed softly, “My dear Doctor Watson if I wanted someone who was just useful to me I would have sent for Mycroft. Yes I have reasons that I sent for you but its not because you’re just useful to me. I need to come home and I can see a way to get home…I’m ready to come home and I wanted the first person to know I was alive to be you. I could have sent Molly to Mycroft within days but I had to come away. Home never left me though and the next thing I know I’ve sent you a ticket and brought you here because I wanted to see you and because you’re the only one that I can trust with everything. I have only ever had one true friend John and I missed you. This isn’t some Graham-Bell moment.”

John had been fighting a smile at his friend’s passionate retort but it fell as the last phrase threw him, “A what moment?”

“Alexander Graham-Bell?” said Sherlock, a look in place on his face that John liked to think of as his idiot look, “The first telephone call.”

John shrugged, Sherlock convincing him once more of the validity of the mad he often put in front of the genius whenever he described him.

“Watson, come here, I need you,” said Sherlock, “That’s what Graham-Bell first said to his assistant. A command. Me sending for you wasn’t a command.”

John’s lip twitched between a smile and laughter, before he reached out and fussed the mop of dark curls before him, “I thought that sort of thing got deleted from in here.”

Sherlock batted the hand away, “Well I was reminded of it recently and it somewhat endeared itself to me,” he said, “I don’t delete everything.”

“Except the fact that we orbit the Sun and the names of every planet in our solar system.”

“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and, in the wish of courting controversy, Pluto,” said Sherlock in a tone usually reserved for an expression of boredom but John could see the quicksilver eyes looking for recognition for the achievement.

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” said John, surprised and oddly proud that he had taken the time to remember them.

Any further conversation was cut short though by the shrill ringing from Sherlock’s pocket. John took the computer as Sherlock fished out his phone, answering it before he held it away from his ear as a stream of frantic Gaelic rattled out towards him. He heard both their names mentioned several times, Sherlock clearly trying to ward off further rants but each sentence was broken before it began. Finally he rid himself of the call, groaning as he let his head fall into his palms.

“What’s wrong?” said John, anxious after being unable to follow the conversation.

“That was Aoife,” said Sherlock, “It seems some god awful inconsiderate coach driver had elected to break down in the village and has pumped his twenty strong crew of Swedish tourists into the pub. I’ve been called into action.”

John laughed, “I thought it was something dreadful.”

“It is dreadful,” said Sherlock, his voice growing dangerously close to a whine, “A bus full of tourists. We got invaded by a load on a walking expedition once when it was raining, I’m surprised we got out alive.”

John shook his head, shutting down the laptop and collecting up the detritus from their lunch as Sherlock got to his feet, brushing the cliff dust from the back of his jeans.

“You’ve not lost your flair for the dramatic,” said John, following as Sherlock turned in a huff for the path.

The climb up was far easier than the one down and they had soon returned to the bike, Sherlock swinging up onto it with his familiar grace while John was left to arrange the computer back in the caddy. The bike roared into life at the very moment John climbed onto it and he was forced to clasp Sherlock’s slim waist tightly once more to keep from tumbling off the back. He let himself laugh, pushing away the awkwardness that he had felt pressed so close to his friend when they headed to the beach. They would get through it but John knew he would have to be the one to lead the way. Once more the slim hand came to his as they hit the straight patches of road but John didn’t balk, even loosely letting his fingers brush between Sherlock’s longer ones as the long road continued straight ahead. He feared it would seem to be teasing but he knew Sherlock’s keen mind would see the gesture for what it was, one of relief, comfort and a promise that he would not run away from the changes knowledge and time had brought them.

They saw the coach parked outside the mechanics, all but obscuring John’s hire care as they turned into the village. The pub was clearly busy with several groups of young people clad in khaki shorts and hiking boots sprawled out on the grass outside with pint glasses strewn around them.

“I wouldn’t blame you of you wanted to beat a retreat and wait this out in the cottage,” said Sherlock as he pulled the bike to a halt to the side of the pub, “You can have my keys. The place is a mess though.”

John shook his head as he climbed off the bike and retrieved the computer, leaving Sherlock to pull the tarpaulin back over the machine, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said, “I was too busy falling over myself last night to witness you working the bar. I’m taking pictures to share with everyone we know when I finally can.”

Sherlock frowned, “I completely rescind everything I ever wrote to Mummy about you.”

John smirked, “That would have been threatening were it not for the Mummy in the middle of the sentence.”

Sherlock looked perplexed at the statement, “Well what else am I expected to call her?”

John shoved him towards the door, foregoing the inevitable breakdown of names and their sentimentality if he let Sherlock pursue the conversation, “You have work to do,” he said, “Mine’s a pint of the black stuff.”

“You can get your own,” said Sherlock as they stepped into the pub, only John’s firm hand on his shoulder keeping him from turning and swimming back to England.

Aoife caught sight of them before Sherlock could even further contemplate escape and she swiftly herded him behind the bar with a wave of her tea towel. John wondered if the simple scrap of material should come with a health warning as she clocked Sherlock round the head with it once more, clearly in response to his cheek but John missed the words in the language he hadn’t Sherlock’s capacity to understand. The little pub was heaving, the group of tourists mostly below thirty and all athletic looking as they spread themselves and their back packs out around the room. Sherlock was already under fire at the bar as John headed over, catching his eye and waving the computer in question. Sherlock spared a solitary finger to direct him to the back room before his attention was pulled back to his customers.

John followed the direction he as sent and found himself in a small kitchen that led further back to a desk. He set the laptop there, turning to see Aoife bustle in and hurry to fill plates with the savoury concoction he could see bubbling on the stove.

“Ah John, I’m sorry I dragged you both back so soon but I needed your man behind the bar,” she said, “They’ve descended like locusts onto us and Padraig doesn’t think he’ll be able to sort that old bucket of theirs until morning. He’s had to go into town for the parts so I might have them for the night.”

“Well let me know if I can help,” said John, “I worked the union bar in my student days.”

“Sherlock might be glad for the company but you’re not here to do his job for him so I’ll ask you only if he can’t keep up,” said Aoife, “I do need one favour though.”

John picked up two of the plates Aoife was trying to juggle and followed her back into the bar, “Ask away,” he said, barely missing Sherlock who seemed to move around the bar with the same energy he gave a crime scene.

“I need your room,” said Aoife, “Can you stay in the cottage with Sherlock?”

“Aoife there’s not a scrap of room,” came the response from behind them, punctuated by the ring of the ancient till, “I’ve only got one room in that place, where’s John meant to sleep?”

“You can play at camping,” said Aoife, “There’s a spare mattress in the cupboard and some blankets that I won’t need. Take them with you. You can even be a gentleman for once in your life and let Doctor Watson have your bed.”

John dared to raise his gaze, seeing the faint pink tinge to his friend’s cheeks but the contact was broken as someone called for Sherlock’s attention. John continued to follow Aoife and had soon delivered the plates to the waiting tourists. He returned to the bar when Aoife waved off any further help and pulled himself up a stool, watching Sherlock as he worked. He seemed so at ease with the customers and John would almost question his knowledge of the self-proclaimed sociopath had he not experienced his personality for so long. The former detective conversed easily with both the locals and the tourists, his smile and personality so easy that John felt an odd sort of jealousy that he was sharing with them what he had only ever shared with him before. He did however see the opposite of the act being played whenever Sherlock turned from the crowd, the tension taking his shoulders and the shadow his face especially when one of the tourists gave him any other name beginning with S save his own. Finally the demand let up on his friend and John smiled as without any prompt a pint of perfect dark stout was placed before him. 

“On the house,” said Sherlock the smile he gave John genuine and all the brighter than he afforded his guests.

“Won’t you get in trouble?” said John.

Sherlock shook his head, “Aoife likes you too much,” he said before a frown knotted his brow, “John, if staying in the cottage with me is…awkward then I can always stay on the sofa here. I’ll probably work anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said John, “You should sleep and you’ll do that far better in your own bed. I will not let things get awkward between us so don’t worry. Besides, few more of these and I’ll fall asleep too quickly to care about awkwardness.”

Sherlock’s expression softened before it transformed into a familiar smirk, “You’d better not snore.”

“I’ll try,” said John, before he nodded to the counter behind, “I think you have customers.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh joy,” he muttered before he turned with a forced smile once more.

John continued to watch as the evening unfolded, Sherlock occasionally breaking away to speak with him but more often than not he was pulled away far too quickly. Aoife seemed to buzz constantly to and from the kitchen, the food a big hit amongst the clientele but she often stopped to talk with the tourists more so than the locals. John watched as she pawed over the maps they had spread out and sometimes pointed them to a local who would be of help to them. She seemed to brighten though as she spoke to a particular group of young women and hurried to the bar as soon as she had finished speaking to them.

“Sherlock, can I borrow you?” she said, hanging on the bar near John’s side.

Sherlock quickly finished with the man he was serving and turned to her, silver eyes swiftly tracing his employer before he smiled in an expression John only ever saw when he was on a case.

“Where?” he said to Aoife even though the woman hadn’t said a word.

“Four blonde heads over yonder,” said Aoife, “Been asking me about banshees and leprechauns and all sorts of voodoo. Told them my lad could see the future, tell them all their secrets. Told them you’d do it for ten Euro a head.”

Sherlock looked over the tables and John followed his gaze until it landed on a group of four young blonde women who burst into giggly delight the second they noticed the younger man’s gaze.

“Oh Aoife that’s all too easy,” said Sherlock but he left from around the bar, heading over to the group.

John frowned as he watched Sherlock introduce himself to the women before sitting down amongst them, “What’s he doing?”

“Fortune telling,” said Aoife.

John barely managed to swallow his mouthful of drink rather than sputter it all over the bar, “Fortune telling? Sherlock?”

Aoife laughed, “That’s what we tell the tourists,” she said, “He bewitches everyone with those tricks of his and wraps it up with a few silly predictions.”

“I did used to think he was a little psychic when we first met,” said John, “Didn’t think he’d ever do that though.”

Aoife smiled as she took Sherlock’s place behind the bar, “Needs must Doctor Watson when you have no other source of income.”

“True,” said John, his attention still on his friend.

John continued to watch as Sherlock soon had the four young women watching him in abject fascination as he bent over the palm of the woman nearest him as though reading the lines there. They all gasped in giggly delight as Sherlock clearly offered some wild prediction and John wasn’t ignorant of the looks they were surreptitiously shooting his friend. John frowned as a small group of tourists headed to the bar, blocking his view of the table Sherlock sat at. He tutted to himself and struggled to find a view that worked until he realised what he was doing and sat back on his stool. He wondered at his own behaviour and felt a twinge that he was worried was something akin to jealousy. He shook off the thought, he had no business being jealous of Sherlock attracting the attention of anyone. He had more than once insisted he felt nothing but a friendly affection for his friend, had asserted it once more when Sherlock had admitted the feelings he had confessed only to his mother before and yet as the crowd cleared and he saw by far the prettiest blonde lean closer into his friend’s side the knot tightened once more in his chest.

“If looks could kill…” came the whisper in his ear.

He turned his head to see Aoife beside him, her bright blue eyes mocking as she smiled at him.

“You could always walk over there and tug him away.”

“He’s busy,” said John, turning his attention back to his pint only to find it empty.

“He’s already told them all he needs to to earn his wage,” said Aoife, “Look at him, he’s looking for a reason to escape.”

John glanced back over and saw the telltale tension in Sherlock’s shoulders, his smile clearly false though the truth was lost on the women who seemed intent on keeping his attention.

“You know, the situation you two are in, what with you thinking he was dead only to find him alive reminds me of when I was five years old. I grew up round here and you come to think that you and world are at peace with one another, that it can never hurt you,” said Aoife, “I thought that about the sea the most, I thought it could never hurt me but I was wrong. I got caught in a rip tide and pulled out to sea and by rights I should have drowned but I lived, was found by my mam clinging to a rock half a mile down from the beach. She said to me, girl God ain’t done with you yet, he’s given you a chance to get it right. She was right, God had given me a chance to learn to respect the power of the world around me. God’s given you a chance to say those things you never said when you were together before. He wants you to take what he designed you to have.”

John frowned, hearing the underlying instruction in her words, “I wouldn’t think that God would be encouraging what you’re encouraging,” he said, “Last time I checked, it was frowned on.”

“Way I see it was God who made the laws,” said Aoife, “And its God who can choose to let people break them. Don’t waste the chance he’s given you John.”

John was about to answer her when a customer called her down the bar, leaving him alone with her words hanging thick in the air around him. He raised his gaze once more, seeing Sherlock extricate himself from the clutches of the four blonde women, deftly pocketing several folded Euro notes. He caught up a couple of glasses as he passed the tables until a hand caught his arm. John watched as Sherlock turned to the table where several local men were sat, his expression open and showing a clear friendship with those he was speaking to. Once more John felt the twinge though it was less pronounced and he felt utterly worthless that he disliked anyone having even a modicum of the closeness he shared with Sherlock. He watched as Sherlock nodded in agreement to whatever request they made of him before he turned back to the bar, leaving the men behind rearranging their seating.

Sherlock all but bounced back to the bar, looking coltish and far younger than his true age as he leaned against the counter, “Aoife, we’re going to play some trad, can you spare me?”

“Of course,” said Aoife, reaching under the bar, “Get the punters dancing and they’ll drink more.”

She soon pulled out a violin case and handed it over to the man before her. Sherlock rested the case on the edge and reverently took the battered fiddle from within the lining. It was nowhere near as well kept an instrument as his own beloved violin that still resided at Baker Street but it was clearly loved, the respect for it clear in every move Sherlock made. He quickly checked the strings and the tuning before he retrieved the bow, a smile on his face as he played a few gentle chords that were barely audible above the sound of the customers. John smiled at the sight, knowing that he was watching his friend at his happiest, music always being the one thing to bring Sherlock some peace. As though sensing his gaze Sherlock turned and returned his smile, moving along the bar to his side.

“Not getting bored are you?” he said.

“With you fortune telling and now about to play?” said John, “Haven’t got a chance to get bored.”

“Get Aoife to get you another drink,” said Sherlock with an arch look, “I’ll be relying on you.”

“Relying on me?”

“To lead the dancing of course,” said Sherlock, turning on his heel and bringing the violin to his shoulder, a spirited tune resonating through the room.

Several of the locals Sherlock had been speaking to produced instruments of their own and soon they had the whole room clapping along with familiar and unfamiliar tunes. John watched in amusement at the complex tunes Sherlock was pulling from the ancient fiddle, so used to hearing the classics from him but glad he could play anything he turned his hand to just as well. There were soon several people on their feet, the dancing lacking any form of finesse but providing vast amounts of entertainment. John kept his seat at the bar, watching Sherlock but he soon met his friend’s gaze and knew he would not be allowed his place of safety for much longer. Sherlock spared his gaze briefly to Aoife and soon the landlady had stepped from around the bar and dragged John to the centre of the room. 

The pace of the music increased as soon as he was on his feet and he shot Sherlock a look that melted when he saw the mirth on his friend’s face, glad he could bring a true smile back to his face however ridiculous he had to look. Aoife span him round the floor for the fastest jig of the evening and by the time it ended John was glad to return to his chair, the band taking pity on their dancers and slowing the music. John’s surprise was fully assured though as he heard the quiet but unmistakeable sound of Sherlock’s voice as it joined the band’s singer in a melody.

The lull in music however brought a plethora of people to the bar and Aoife was soon overwhelmed. Unwilling to deprive the room of Sherlock’s music John moved to her side without her request and soon the pair of them were managing the bar while the music continued to play. The night continued in the same vein and it was only when the large grandfather clock struck eleven that Aoife rang her bell to call in the last orders. Gradually the tourists took to their rooms as the locals began to head home, several helping to take glasses to the bar before they left with warm words of goodnight. Finally Aoife closed the door on her last customer as Sherlock returned the fiddle to its case and joined John at one of the well-worn tables.

“Well here’s to a job well done,” said Aoife, placing a bottle of whiskey and three glasses on the table, “Get them drinks out while I fetch you boys some supper, you’ve not paused for breath since you came back.”

Sherlock opened the bottle as instructed pouring out three generous measures of the fine golden malt before he sat back in his chair, with a groan of relief, “What a night, I thought it would never end,” he said, dropping his head back and exposing the length of his pale throat, “Far too much humanity in one room.”

“You loved it and don’t pretend you didn’t,” said John, “All those fortunes you got to tell.”

Sherlock laughed, “Tell no one of our mutual acquaintance,” he said, “It’s not what I want to be doing but it’s a means to an end and at least it can be interesting. Some people are so wrapped up in their desired image they actually know very little about themselves.”

“And you enjoy nothing more than putting them right?”

Sherlock raised his head to give his friend an arch look, “It passes the time,” he said before he sighed, “Its all I can do out here anyway. “

John fought the urge to reach across the table and cover Sherlock’s hand with his own, “We’ll get you back, somehow,” he said, “You’ll just need to paw palms for a little bit longer.”

“Dull!” muttered Sherlock though a small smile played at the corner of his lips.

They fell into companionable silence, only the crackle of the fire and the occasional footsteps from above as the tourists settled for the night breaking the atmosphere. John let himself watch the man before him as he let his head fall back once more, fatigue written in every line but Holmesian stubbornness was clearly still winning against sleep. John knew a lesser man would have already succumbed with no sleep the night before and then a whole afternoon and evening working the bar and entertaining the locals with the spirited music. John smiled as he remembered some of the more frantic jigs he had heard, Sherlock never missing a note on the borrowed fiddle.

“I can’t get over you playing all that Irish music earlier, “ he said, “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“It’s hardly the greats but it amuses me,” said Sherlock, “More so when I get the chance to watch my blogger get pulled into a jig.”

John laughed, “Tell no one of our mutual acquaintance,” he said, repeating his friend’s words.

They both laughed lightly at the repetition, the atmosphere relaxed and warm as the village settled for the night outside. They heard Aoife returning from the kitchen and sat up a little straighter, John only realising just how hungry he was when a bowl of her savoury stew was placed before him. The three of them ate, both John and Sherlock regaling Aoife with stories of the cases they had undertaken back in England, the pair of them finally managing to detail every aspect and John tempering Sherlock whenever the detective grew entirely too descriptive of the minor facts. They both trailed off though as some of the stories began to echo with Moriarty’s name, the shadow of the man falling over them even in the comfort of the pub.

Sherlock had got to his feet when the silence had grown stifling, picking up their empty plates and heading to the kitchen at the back. John watched him go and almost stayed in his seat but his body refused to obey and he soon found himself following behind. He found Sherlock stood by the sink, the dishes laid in the bowl but no water running in an effort to wash them. Making sure the detective heard his footsteps, John crossed the floor to him. Reaching up to grasp the taller man’s shoulders, he tightened his fingers briefly, trying to bring as much comfort as he could.

“Are you alright?”

“Don’t fuss John, I’m not a child,” said Sherlock, his voice tired and his body not moving from the touch, “I just need to get these done or Aoife will break out the tea towel.”

“Need some help?” said John, dropping his hands and moving to lean back against the counter, trying to catch his friend’s gaze.

“No he doesn’t,” came Aoife’s from the door, “I can manage three dishes myself. Get on home the pair of you, you’ll be neither use nor ornament if you don’t get some sleep. You can take anything you need from the storage room upstairs Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, long arms crossed low on his chest as he hurried from the room, shoulders tensed and all but closing him off from the world. John remained lent against the counter, feeling deflated by the scene.

“I’ve never seen him like that before,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “Never so…”

“Broken?” said Aoife, “He’s been torn from everything he knows, left to go stir crazy in this place all because of one man. You’re a doctor John, you know how long it takes some things to heal.”

John nodded sadly, “Just never thought it would be him that needed to,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face before he righted his stance, “I should see if he needs any help.”

“Don’t forget this,” said Aoife, heading to the desk and picking up Sherlock’s computer, placing it in John’s hand, “I don’t want him terrifying the clients by coming in at three in the morning looking for it.”

John managed a small smile at her words, “Good idea,” he said, “Goodnight Aoife.”

“Goodnight John, tell Sherlock goodnight for me.”

John nodded as he stepped back out into the bar, retrieving his bag that Aoife had stashed there when she had cleared his room. He slipped the laptop inside and crossed it over his shoulder as he heard Sherlock’s footfalls on the stairs. The mattress appeared before his friend did and he hurried to help him for fear he’d tumbled down the narrow stairs and be buried beneath the copious amount of blankets and pillows he also carried.

“You never make things easy for yourself do you?”

Sherlock would have managed a retort had he not been struggling to keep a pillow from falling with his teeth but the look was as cutting as possible. John reached up and retrieved the pillow and several of the blankets, wrapping them into a tight bundle with practiced ease.

“You’d never have made the army.”

“I can always let you sleep in your car you know?” said Sherlock as together they hefted the mattress towards the door.

“You never would,” said John, receiving a challenging look from over his friend’s shoulder.

Together they managed to manoeuvre the unwieldy mattress out of the pub and down the small hill towards the cottage. The street was almost pitch black but Sherlock seemed to know the path on instinct and John allowed him to take the lead. John’s arms were aching as they reached the tiny stone building and he was glad that the ground had dried enough to allow them to set the mattress on the ground while Sherlock fished in his pocket for a key.

“You lived with me long enough to know I’m not the most house proud of creatures,” said Sherlock as he struggled with the ancient lock, “And this place is rustic at best.”

“Sherlock you don’t need to apologise for anything,” said John as the door opened and both dragged the mattress inside. 

The room was dark and John could make out very little, even Sherlock disappearing into the gloom for a moment before the strike of a match illuminated his sharp features. He lit a large standing candle before taking a piece of old newspaper and holding it to the flame. He used the improvised kindling to light the fireplace, the flame soon taking hold and slowly illuminated the room. As Sherlock busied himself in lighting several more candles John took a moment the look around. The cottage was little more than a room with a section curtained off that John guessed acted as a bathroom. The floor was taken up by a large mattress, laden with blankets and pillows as well as discarded books and other items that Sherlock had once had more space to spread around. He smiled at the sight, wondering at the state Baker Street would have found itself in if Sherlock had been allowed to live in it alone.

“That’s more of a nest than a bed,” said John, laying the mattress he helped drag from the pub on the only clear space of floor beside the fireplace, “I’m almost surprised there isn’t a skull.”

Sherlock managed a small smile as he turned to his friend, “Well they have a thing about grave robbing around here,” he said, a frown taking his features as he too surveyed the mess that was his bed, “I guess I should show you around though there’s not a lot to see. Bedroom and the fireplace acts like a kitchen, well when I say kitchen it manages tea and toast. If you want proper food you’ll need to talk to Aoife.”

“Five months here and you still haven’t learned to cook,” said John.

“I had Aoife and I don’t spend a lot of time here,” said Sherlock, “Bathroom’s behind the curtain, the fire heats the water so if I leave it burning tonight it should be warm enough by morning. The bus should be fixed by tomorrow so you won’t have to put up with this place for more than one night.”

“Its not that bad Sherlock,” said John, placing the roll of blankets and his bag on the mattress.

The other man folded his long legs beneath him, sitting down on his own vast mattress with a sigh, “Yes it is, it’s a drafty old cottage with no electricity that most people mistake for a shed. I wouldn’t even keep livestock in a place like this and now I’m forcing you to endure it.”

John huffed a laugh, “I’ve roughed it in worse than this Sherlock,” he said, settling down on his own unmade bed.

Sherlock’s eyes remained bent on his hands where they lay in his lap, “I shouldn’t have dragged you out here, forced this place on you,” he said quietly, “I should have disappeared entirely or better yet I should have…”

“Don’t you dare!” cried John, closing the small distance between them and grabbing the younger man’s shoulders, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. Don’t you even think that would have been an option, not now, not when I’ve just got you back. Sherlock this is temporary, this is what you’ve had to do to survive.”

Sherlock raised his head and John saw an expression there that shocked him to the core. Only once had he seen the look, the fight against his emotions that was so close to being lost, when they had sat in a pub in Devon and Sherlock had tried to overcome the image of the Hollow’s fabled hound. Tears brimmed in the crystalline eyes that threatened to fall with Sherlock’s next breath but every part of the man was fighting them, fighting the shame, the agony and the heartbreak that had been six months ripped from family, friends and home. John had felt so much pain when he had thought his friend dead but he had had the comfort of people nearby, familiarity to rely on but Sherlock had had nothing. He had been thrown into a world so far removed from what he knew, forced to be someone he was not meant to be to both hide and survive. John had once likened his behaviour to Asperger’s and he knew even without his medical training how truly disconcerting and frightening such a vast change could be to someone with such an affliction and it broke his heart.

“I hate how you’ve suffered,” said John loosening his grip but keeping hold of Sherlock’s shoulders, “But we will put this right, I will do everything in my power to put this right.”

Without giving it any conscious thought John pulled Sherlock into his arms, feeling the younger man stiffen in surprise before emotion won the battle within him and two long arms clasped John tightly, suppressed sobs manifesting in small shudders that only intensified as John tightened his hold.

“You can cry,” he said into the riot of black curls at his shoulder, “No arguments now. You can cry.”

At first John thought Sherlock would protest, pull away and lash out as he always did whenever emotion took over from logic but instead he fell almost boneless against him, his face buried in John’s neck as the warm wet tears finally began to soak through the collar of his shirt. John said nothing as he held him but his hand acted almost on instinct as it came up to rest against the soft black hair, fingers carding lightly through the curls. The room was almost silent, only the crackle of the fire cutting through but there was no need for words as the embrace said all they needed to. I’ve missed you, I’ve mourned you. I’ve been frightened, I’ve been empty. I needed to see you, I got my miracle. 

“He took my life John.”

The words were so soft that John thought for a moment that he had imagined them but Sherlock’s voice continued, weak and broken against his shoulder.

“I was so stupid, I let him win,” he said, “I was so concerned with the game and I lost sight of everything else and he knew I would. He knew exactly how to play me and I was the idiot who let him.”

John smiled, spreading his fingers a little wider against the younger man’s hair to take any sting from his words, “I’ve been telling you you’re an idiot since the day I met you.”

The sound at his shoulder could have been a laugh or a sob but he knew it was the former as Sherlock’s arm tightened briefly at his waist before he raised his head, pale eyes red rimmed but a little brighter than they had been.

“I should have listened to you.”

“No point in talking about what ifs,” said John, “We can fix this.”

“I’m dead John,” said Sherlock, “If I go back I can’t be who I was and even if I could be, I’m disgraced. I saw the papers.”

“And just as he destroyed your character we can destroy his,” said John, “I don’t know how but I’m sure we’ll think of something. I won’t let you become a pessimist Sherlock, it doesn’t suit you.”

Sherlock drew himself back up to sitting, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes with a sigh, “Either way we can’t do much tonight,” he said, “I need my bed.”

John made no attempt to prevent the smile that took his lips or the laugh that bubbled up from him, “Well that’s the second miracle of the week,” he said, “Sherlock Holmes admitting he’s tired.”

“I wasn’t born for bar work.”

“Oh I know that, I’ve seen where you grew up,” said John, “It has been a rather long day though, I’ll give you that. Mind if I nab the bathroom first?”

Sherlock shook his head, “The water will be freezing, its pretty much straight from the river in this old place.”

“I’m sure I’ll cope,” said John, unfolding himself from where he was perched between the two mattresses and grabbing his bag.

He brushed aside the curtain and frowned at the simple excuse for a bathroom that greeted him. An ancient looking Victorian style bath stood in the corner, not the fashionable kind but one that could very nearly be from the time period with two all but rusty taps connected to well below code piping. A shower stand had been added to the set up but there was no curtain, the stone floor and tatty mat showing where the water would spill over the side. The basin was little more that an old Belfast sink with a pump handled tap and the toilet reminded John of the vile things he was forced to endure at school when you had to physically hang from the chain to get it to flush. Sherlock had apologised for forcing John to endure the place but John couldn’t help but think how unworthy it was for Sherlock, not just because of what he had been raised in but also that he deserved so much more. 

Trying to ignore the squalor of the place John quickly changed into a pair of ratty joggers and a t shirt before washing his face in the almost frigid water. He reached blindly for the towel he had seen thrown over the rail of the bath, rubbing it over his face before the smell of it caught his senses. He and Sherlock had often nicked one another’s towels when they had lived together but as such they had developed a mix of their scents but the material John held had nothing of him ingrained in it. It was a moment before he realised he still had it held to his face and he hastily placed it back on the rail, swiftly finishing in the bathroom before he pushed back the curtain to the main area of the cottage.

He smiled to see his bed already made up with blankets but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. His clothes from the day were strewn on the single chair in the corner of the room but the bed was empty. For a moment John felt a panic try and seize his heart but then he saw the door held ajar. Setting down his bag he crossed the room and stepped outside, seeing Sherlock leant back against the brickwork, a cigarette held to his lips.

“Caught me then?” he said ruefully, not taking his eyes from the stars above them, “I thought I’d have a few more minutes.”

“You were doing so well,” said John, “But I’d rather you back on them than anything else.”

“If its any consolation its not a frequent occurrence,” said Sherlock, tossing the butt down on the ground and grinding the heat from it with the toe of his chuck, the shoes looking odd against the light blue pyjama bottoms he wore, “Reserved especially for moments when my only friend comes back into my life and has me crying on his shoulder.”

“Couldn’t even be called a habit then,” said John, wrapping his arms around himself, “How are you not cold?”

“I’m freezing,” said Sherlock, “But I’m used to it.”

John stepped back into the house as Sherlock followed, locking the door behind them before he extinguished the candles he had lit, the fire now the only light in the room. John climbed into the bed by the hearth, watching as Sherlock picked his way over his own before the detective grabbed the pillows from the far end and tossed it towards where John already lay.

“I doubt you’d want to sleep with my feet in your face,” said Sherlock, answering John’s unspoken question even before it had a chance to register on his face, “I’ll be two minutes.”

John watched as Sherlock disappeared behind the curtain, the sound of running water soon echoing through the house. The fire crackled behind him as he turned his body onto his side away from the flames, glad of their warmth as the chill from outside seemed intent on permeating the house. He pulled the blankets tighter around him, blocking out the chill as silence took the cottage once more. He found himself glad that Sherlock had only had to live in the drafty building for the spring and the summer but the thought also had him dreading the winter, hoping that whatever plan they engineered to bring Sherlock home would come to fruition before it grew too cold.

The curtain swished and John raised his head from the pillow as Sherlock hurried to his own bed, the combination of the chill air and the cold water clearly having him longing for heat also. He clambered beneath the blankets, clearly having to rearrange them for the change in his sleeping position before he bunched up his pillow beneath his head, long pale arms wrapped around it.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked, his slim face highly shadowed by the firelight.

John nodded, “Glad you grabbed as many blankets as you did though,” he said.

“Well by tomorrow you can be back at Aoife’s,” said Sherlock around a yawn.

John couldn’t help the smile that took him, “Even post case I’ve never seen you act so tired,” he said, nature causing him to mimic the yawn, “I could sleep for a week.”

“Well I promise not to wake you until morning at least,” said Sherlock, closing his eyes, “Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock,” said John, closing his own eyes and willing sleep to claim him.

Sleep was elusive however, much as he persevered, and after an hour he opened his eyes, the fire burning slightly lower and casting the cottage in eerie shadows. Sherlock’s breathing had long since evened and deepened into sleep, undisturbed even when the log cracked loudly. John propped himself on the pillow, for once able to study his friend without his pale eyes returning the gesture with far deeper understanding. Sherlock had one arm curled around his pillow, his black curls spilling over the teal covering, looking far longer than John remembered them being now he had a chance to study him. Half his face was obscured by the pillow but the rest looked relaxed and far younger than his true age, pale skin pulled tightly over the finely sculptured face. John had always been aware of the odd beauty of his friend, his appearance reminding him of the plethora of androgynous pop stars John had followed in the seventies when men wore make up and platform shoes while the older generation tutted and the younger tried to emulate them. John had still been fairly young at their height but they had still caught his attention, the memory filed away until Sherlock Holmes had exploded into his life.

Sherlock’s arm had fallen from the mattress and now hung over the edge, long fingers twitching now and then in his sleep. John’s gaze followed the line of his pale forearm, frowning as he saw the faint scars close the crease of his elbow that told of the life Sherlock had lived before. John raised a hand, a finger gently tracing the faint white lines in the hope that they would only ever remain as they were and not be renewed. He felt the pulse thrum beneath the skin and John felt the elation once again that he had found his friend alive. It was a moment later though that he realised that he was watching himself stroke the fine, soft skin of his friend’s arm and he snatched his hand away.

“John,” came the soft exhalation in the darkness.

At first John thought Sherlock had woken but he saw the unmistakable movement of REM sleep behind his eyelids and knew that he was dreaming. The fact that it was his name that his dream made him vocalise made a blush touch John’s cheeks, the colour deepening as the younger man arched his back luxuriously before snuggling deeper into the bed with a contented sigh. The sound rushed through John and he felt his heart begin to thump a little harder. Rolling onto his back he stared up at the dark, cobwebbed ceiling as his feelings warred with themselves, half of him wanting to run from the room and the other half wanting to press closer to the man all but sleeping beside him. Both Aoife and Evangeline’s words rang in his mind but so did the months of denial to everyone who had ever asked or inferred that they were a couple. 

He knew he loved his friend, how could he not have loved the person who had pulled him from the pit of despair that was his life after Afghanistan but it had been the love of a friend, a comrade. He had had girlfriends throughout his time with Sherlock but the relationships had never lasted long, even the one that had almost made it to the bedroom leaving him unfulfilled and sneaking home at two in the morning as though he had committed some sin rather than followed the natural path of his relationship. The only time he had felt alive, complete was when he had been in the company of the consulting detective. He had always thought it was the thrill of the chase that kept him at Sherlock’s side but he knew far deeper than that that it was the very presence of the man himself that kept him close, the need to be with Sherlock whatever adventure it was they were on.

He shook his head to clear it but the feelings remained, lodging stubbornly in his chest until he was forced to turn to regard the man who was the cause of them. It had taken the dark and the cold of the cottage to force John to realise his attraction but it would take far more for him to know what to do about it. With a resigned sigh he touched the pale outstretched hand lightly with his fingertips, feeling them twitch in response before he closed his eyes with the hope that sleep would bring him some sort of answer channelled through the hand he still held as oblivion claimed him.


	6. Manual Labour

The smell of burning wood, tea and a scent he now associated with towels were the first things to greet John’s senses as he stirred awake the next morning. He blinked open his eyes and made to stretch but swiftly pulled his arms back beneath the covers as the chill of the room hit him. He bundled himself up in the heavy mass of blankets that covered him, realising that he had inherited an additional one in the night that had been on top of Sherlock’s bed. He saw the steaming mug of tea beside him and brought it to his lips, the hot liquid dispelling some of the chill in his bones. He heard a faint clacking sound, familiar and yet so long forgotten that it seemed alien and he sat up, bundling the bedding around him for warmth.

Sherlock sat in the open window at the back of the cottage, feet braced against the frame with his laptop balanced on his lap as he typed away at his usually break neck speed. John shuddered again as the cold draft blew in once more, either the movement or the rustle of the blankets giving him away. 

“Ah good, you’re awake,” said Sherlock before his eyes narrowed slightly, “The cold didn’t wake you did it? It’s the only place I can get any reception for Aoife’s wi-fi.”

John willed his mind to catch up with Sherlock’s conversation but it was sluggish at best and left him with only inane questions in response, “What time is it?” he said, clearing the gravel from his throat with a cough.

“Just gone eight,” said Sherlock, “Aoife gets a delivery from the brewery today so I need to head over there soon. Did you sleep well enough?”

John thought of the time it took for him to fall asleep and the reason’s that had kept him awake but thankfully his sleep when it came had been blissfully dream free. 

“Fine,” he said, “The bed was comfier than it looked.”

“Well at least the rats didn’t have a nibble,” said Sherlock, his smile turning wicked as he saw John flinch, “Don’t panic, I’m joking.”

John shook his head, “Its obscene how awake you are,” he said dragging a blanket around his shoulders as he got to his feet, “What are you working on?”

“There’s a case over in America, well when I say case I’m the only one who’s noticed but there have been four double homicide’s each in a separate state but the MO is identical,” said Sherlock, his eyes lighting as he imparted his knowledge at break neck speed, “All of them couples but of different backgrounds; one pair wealthy professionals in NewYork, husband on Wall Street and the wife a manageress at one of those big boutiques on the tourist drag. The second an immigrant family from Brazil and living in Texas, found by their children murdered in their beds but not a single indication of a break in. The third Finnish tourists on holiday in Alaska found in their hire car and the last honeymooners in Vegas, murdered in the bridal suite of some gaudy hotel with the thousands they’d won on the roulette wheel untouched.”

“And what connects them?” said John shuffling to Sherlock’s side and leaning against the wall by the window so he could see the screen.

Sherlock quickly opened four images each of them showing the couples as they were found, the man either sat or laid down with the woman leaning against his right shoulder, both with their throats cut. 

“Not the nicest of images before breakfast,” said John, “Have the authorities made the connection yet?”

“No and I doubt they will,” said Sherlock before he snapped the laptop shut, “I could have gone out, could have found the answers but I’m stuck here, reliant on news pages and message boards. Its utterly hateful.”

“You really should have sent for Mycroft rather than me,” said John setting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder before he realised the material his hand had come in contact with, “Is that my jumper?”

Sherlock looked down at the beige, woollen jumper that was too short in both the body and the arms, “I sort of broke into Baker Street before Molly and I headed for Ireland. You’d left it there and this one has memories, plus its very warm.”

John smiled, “There’s that sentiment again,” he said, feeling a growingly familiar flutter at the thought of Sherlock taking something of his just because it held a memory and wondering just how often he had worn it whilst in his exile.

“I’ve been through a massive trauma, I’m not myself,” said Sherlock with a familiar arch look before he rubbed a hand over his face, “I suppose I’d better get to Aoife before she comes hunting for me. Hopefully my dear customers will be too busy eating to want to talk to me.”

“I was pretty surprised how sociable you could be last night,” said John.

“Needs must,” said Sherlock, “Aoife will tolerate me but piss off the customers and she won’t be so accommodating. She pitches me out and it’s a doorway in Dublin.”

“Not now,” said John with a shudder at the thought, “If anything happens here all you have to do is send for me though it might take me a while to get to you. I don’t have your brother’s access to helicopters.”

“I didn’t contact Mycroft because I wanted you to know I was alive first,” said Sherlock, “You keep dropping him into the conversation because you’re wondering why I haven’t been in touch with him.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” said John, his hand moving from Sherlock’s shoulder to the back of his neck, almost unbidden.

The gesture was alien for them but John felt Sherlock lean back into the touch if only slightly. His rationale told him to pull away but he was determined to fathom out the feelings he was become all too aware of. 

“I had thought of contacting Mycroft but at first I was worried that for all his protection he could be at as much risk,” said Sherlock, “I may not like my brother but I do love him and I didn’t know how far Moriarty’s influence went. I thought about it when I’d been dead for a couple of months but his answer would have been to squirrel me away in a safe house or under a new identity with strict restrictions until either madness or old age removed the burden. I’d never have been able to come home. I needed you because if you know then he can’t just whisk me away and if I had to choose I wanted to see you.”

John traced a thumb absently against the soft skin beneath Sherlock’s hairline causing the younger man to press back a little further into the touch, “So I have to fight against Mycroft and his minions to bring you home too,” he said, his fingers pushing into the thick mass of dark curls, “I think I left my superhero cape at Baker Street.”

Sherlock laughed, the movement dislodging John’s hand and the moment was swiftly lost, neither of them ready to face it at that point in time. John didn’t pull back too far though, resuming his place lent against the wall as Sherlock turned slightly in the window frame to look up at him.

“Mycroft would never be a match for the two of us,” said Sherlock, swinging his long legs down from the window and getting to his feet, “Use the shower if you like, the water will be warm enough and I’m used to the cold of it if it runs out.”

John frowned, “I got used to not having many creature comforts when I was in Afghanistan but we usually had hot water.”

“Don’t look like that,” said Sherlock, “If I need it Aoife has all the creature comforts necessary and she’s a five minute walk up the hill. I’m by no means out in the cold John. I put some clean towels out on the side and if you need anything washing pop it in the bag in the corner, I can get them done at Aoife’s over the weekend.”

“I’ll try not to use all the water,” said John as Sherlock crossed to his bed and sat down on it, fishing a book from somewhere amongst the covers and settling down on his back.

“Take your time,” said Sherlock waving a hand towards the curtain, “I need to be at the pub by nine but you can stay here if you want to.”

“Aoife has breakfast,” said John, “I’m going with you.”

John headed behind the curtain, once again being struck by the state of it as it was thrown in sharper relief by the daylight. He saw the neatly folded towels on the edge of the washstand and set his blanket down beside them before he removed his pyjamas and stepped into the creaking tub. He turned the water and immediately leapt back from it with an undignified yelp as it struck him like icicles. He heard the soft laughter from the room beyond and scowled at the curtain.

“A little warning would have been nice.”

“The water takes a while to come through warm,” came Sherlock’s voice from behind the curtain.

“Figured that one out,” said John reaching out a tentative hand and finding the water far warmer, “And it’s no worse than when you used to turn the tap on in the kitchen at home.”

“I did that once…”

“A week,” said John over the sound of the spray, “I swear you did it on purpose.”

“You always spent far too long in the bathroom and I was bored,” said Sherlock.

John smiled to himself as he continued his usual routine, ignoring the surroundings as the hot water eased the ache in his injured shoulder. He hurried through as best he could, having to wrench the water off when he was done as the ancient plumbing protested at the treatment. He wrapped the towel around his waist and then cursed when he realised he had left his clothes in the room beyond. As though by cue a pale arm extended around the curtain, holding out the duffle bag he’d brought with him from England.

“Hurry up and make yourself decent,” said Sherlock, his arm disappearing as John took the bag, “It’ll be the tea towel from Aoife if you make me late.”

“Five minutes and it’s all yours,” said John, rifling through the bag until he found some suitable clothes and changed into them. 

He grabbed his nightclothes and the blanket and returned to the main room, shaking his head as he saw Sherlock still flat on his back but with his feet halfway up the wall, long pale feet stark against the bare stones.

“Trying to get more blood to your brain?”

“Bored!” said Sherlock, arching his back and looking at John upside down, “You took too long.”

John bunched up the blanket and pitched it at his friend, “Get yourself dressed or I’ll tell Aoife the real reason you were late.”

Instead of getting up properly Sherlock rolled backwards with the grace of a gymnast and got to his feet, discarding the blanket John had thrown at him, “We can pick up your stuff later if you don’t want to lug it all the way up the hill right now.”

John looked down at the mattress he had slept on the night before as Sherlock disappeared behind the curtain, clothes in hand. He knew the bed at Aoife’s would be far comfier and the room warmer but the thought of even the short distance between the pub and the cottage placed a nasty knot in his stomach. 

“Actually Sherlock,” he said as he heard the water turn on, pipes creaking in protest, “I was thinking I might stay here.”

Silence greeted him at first but then Sherlock’s voice rang out, “Why would you want to stay here?”

John smiled at the genuine confusion he heard in the other man’s voice, “Fancied roughing it a bit after all that time at your mum’s house,” he said, “Not to mention the fact that my best friend lives here.”

Silence came again and John began straightening both their beds, laughing to himself as he found another four books beneath the blankets of Sherlock’s bed that he set on the floor beside the pillows before he straightened the pillows themselves. He shook his head as he saw a wedge of papers tucked into the pillowcase, noticing his friend’s familiar handwriting but he left them where they were, remembering when he was younger how anything he wanted to keep particularly close or hidden ended up under his pillow. 

He stashed his bag beside his own bed, neatness instilled in him by the army though he knew he would never pass the habit on to Sherlock who could create a mess by just passing through a room. He heard the water shut off beyond and settled in the one chair the room held, knowing it wouldn’t be long until he would be swept back to the bar in the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes.

John’s thoughts soon came to fruition and they stepped out into a clear bright morning, the village just beginning to come to life around them. John stretched luxuriously in the clean air, the noise and smell of London miles from his thoughts and he once more envied his friend that he had at least spent his exile somewhere so beautiful. He noticed Sherlock’s arch look and knew his thoughts had been easily read. As they approached the pub they saw the tour bus still parked across the road but John was surprised that alongside what was clearly the brewery’s van there was also an old-fashioned horse drawn wagon. 

“Eoin’s here,” said Sherlock, increasing his pace towards the bar.

“Eoin?” said John, before he remembered Aoife’s words, “Is that the farmer you work for?”

“Occasionally,” said Sherlock, catching Aoife’s attention from where she stood by the brewer’s van, “We get most of the produce for the bar from him and his wife Mary. He delivers whenever he can get away. Dia dhuit.”

“I don’t know where you picked up Gaelic so quickly,” said John as Aoife greeted them both in her own tongue.

“Gaelic speaking village, maximum exposure,” said Sherlock, “But most of them speak English too so don’t worry.”

“Or at least we’ll try to,” said Aoife, “Survived the night Doctor Watson?”

“Just about,” said John, “Anything I can help with?”

“You can go in and take a seat and help yourself to the pot of tea on the table,” said Aoife, “My guests were up and out on a walk early but there’s still breakfast to be had. Sherlock and I will join you when we’re sorted.”

“I’d rather help,” said John as Sherlock moved without any instruction to the back of the brewery van, helping the two men there to roll the barrels towards the cellar hatch that stood open beside the front wall.

The younger man spoke more animatedly with one than the other and John didn’t need his powers of deduction to work out that Eoin mucked in with the running of Aoife’s bar as well as delivering her food. 

“Well if you want to be of some help then you can fetch the baskets of the back of Eoin’s wagon and take them into the kitchen,” said Aoife, “Meat goes to the fridges in the cellar though.”

John, happy to be employed, soon had the baskets on the counter in the kitchen and then started moving the large wrapped cuts of meat to the cellar, moving through the bar rather than getting in the way of the large barrels. By the time he had the last joint stashed Eoin and Sherlock were in the cellar, working side by side to shift the barrels off the winch they’d been lowered on. Eoin was a large, gruff looking man of around fifty his very build and carriage denoting a life spent working the land. Sherlock by comparison looked even more ethereal than he usually did, tall and willowy like air to Eoin’s earth. John noted with some pride though that the younger man managed to shift the heavy barrels as well as Eoin. When they had finally unloaded all the barrels, Sherlock shouted up to the brewer-man and the cellar opening was shut from above.

Eoin shook Sherlock’s hand firmly, the pair conversing in Gaelic until Sherlock appeared to agree to something with a slight tone of reluctance but a smile all the same. With a nod to John the farmer left the cellar and John saw Sherlock lean back against the barrels with a sigh.

“Well that’s my Monday sorted,” he said, “Eoin has a list of jobs he needs help with and Aoife’s promised my services already.”

John frowned, “Did she even ask you?”

“I work for her,” said Sherlock folding his arms with a shrug, “Its kind of a standing agreement now. I work for Eoin now and then and he cuts the bills for the bar food and anything extra is money for me.”

“I can’t see you working on a farm,” said John.

“Until last night I doubt you could have imagined me working behind a bar either,” said Sherlock, “John stop looking as though I’ve been suffering here. Its dull and its boring but its not going to kill me. Look at it this way, Eoin has a day’s work for me and that means by Monday evening I’ll have some money. By the looks of what you brought with you, you’ll be here for a fortnight and you’ve not resigned from your job so duty will have you back when you need to be. You won’t be able to come back often for the risk of someone working out what’s going on so I have the rest of today and then another eleven days at best before you go back to England.”

“How does that equate to you needing to work on a farm?”

Sherlock’s face took on a familiar look he had worn whenever he was convinced John was being particularly slow, “I don’t want us to be confined to the village for the short amount of time we have but neither to I intend to be reliant on you. I know what job you’re doing and I know that much as Mrs Hudson may have reduced the rent at home it won’t be by much. You bought a last minute ticket to get here and that would have cost a small fortune so you won’t have much to waste while you’re here. If I work on Monday I can earn enough to take us into Killarney or Tralee and we won’t be going stir crazy with only this tiny place for entertainment.”

“All the countryside around us and you worry we’ll get bored?” said John before he smiled, “Or are you just hoping to find somewhere with too many people so I can’t murder you when you drive me mad?”

“I’ll leave you to make your own deductions on that,” said Sherlock, “You may as well go up and raid Aoife’s larder, I need to shift a few of these barrels about.”

“Let me help then,” said John, “You’re already whinging that I’ll be going home at some point so let’s get this done in half the time.”

Sherlock looked set to argue but he relented before any complaint left his lips, “If you want to help you can take those two barrels in the far corner off the taps and roll them back over here.”

John did as he was instructed, struggling a little more with the second tap as Sherlock rolled the first barrel over before he headed back to move the second. Aoife’s voice from above calling them to breakfast caught them both by surprise but while John only suffered the indignity of jumping he heard the crash behind him and Sherlock’s expressive curse. John turned swiftly, his mind already jumping to horrific thoughts of broken bones as he heard the crash of the heavy barrel against the floor, and was almost glad when he saw his friend still upright. The worry raised itself again though as he saw the blood dripping down from Sherlock’s hand and he crossed the room in a few strides, training winning out over any panic response.

“Let me see,” he said, taking hold of his hand and raising it to reduce the blood flow.

“Its not that deep,” said Sherlock, wincing as John examined the inch long cut that ran half the length of his little finger, “It’ll be fine.”

“Which one of us is the trained doctor here?” said John, “Hold still.”

“What’s happening down here?” said Aoife, head and shoulders appearing as she leant down over the edge of the hatch to the bar.

“You scared the hell out of us and the barrel pitched a tumble,” said Sherlock.

“Are you hurt?”

“No…”

“Yes,” said John, cutting him off, “I’m not letting you do anything until I’ve had a proper look at that cut.”

John led Sherlock from the cellar, keeping his hand elevated as they awkwardly climbed up into the brighter light of the bar. He sat the detective beside a window that gave him the light he needed, smiling in thanks as Aoife set a small first aid kit and a bowl of water on the table beside him before she headed down into the cellar to put the room right. He turned Sherlock’s hand into the light, cleaning the blood from it to better assess its depth.

“Will I live do you think?” said Sherlock, smiling at the scowl his tone inspired.

“You’re very lucky this doesn’t need stitches,” said John, “Any other angle and you could have cut down to the bone. As it is it’s on the joint so it’ll hurt and take a while to heal. I suggest not even picking up a violin for the next few days.”

Sherlock blanched, “How many days?”

“At least I’d give it five or six maybe, even after that it may still hurt too much,” said John, “But I’ll be able to give you a better idea in a couple of days when it starts healing. It’s a shame.”

“Shame?” said Sherlock.

John quirked a smile, “I’ve missed the sound of you playing,” he said, keeping his eyes focused on Sherlock’s hand as he cleaned the wound and began to mind it with Aoife’s meagre supplies, “I know the fiddle you were playing isn’t your own but I was still hoping I might persuade you to play some Vivaldi before I went home. Guess I’ll have to wait until next time.”

“You always complained when I played Vivaldi at home,” said Sherlock gently flexing his hand when John finally released it, the tight pain smarting with every movement.

“When you played it at three in the morning,” said John, “But Sunday afternoons were like having my own private chamber concert. Your violin is still in its case at home, where it always was, I couldn’t bear to move it.”

“Maybe you could smuggle it out to me whenever next time is and I’ll persuade Aoife that a fiddle isn’t only designed for traditional music,” said Sherlock, “Barring any further mishaps.”

John shook his head, “You’re a magnet for trouble,” he said, “I’m going to tell Aoife to let you take things easy today. Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t protest as John got to his feet, cleaning up the supplies he had used to treat him. 

“You need to take more care down in that cellar,” said John, “That injury could have been much worse.”

“I’ve already been through worse,” said Sherlock, “First week working here I threw my back and could barely move for a fortnight.”

John’s face was once more a picture of concern, “Did you see doctor?”

“I couldn’t risk drawing attention to myself,” said Sherlock, “Besides it put itself right.”

“Sherlock you should take more care of yourself,” he said holding up a hand to still any protest, “I’m not going to nanny you but… just… take care.”

Sherlock smiled but nodded all the same, cradling his carefully bandaged hand, “I’ll try,” he promised as John headed back behind the bar.

The morning passed by slowly, John helping Aoife where Sherlock could not and he could see the boredom settling on his friend. By the time the first chorus of ‘bored’ rang through the bar John procured Sherlock’s keys to the cottage and headed out, returning with the younger man’s laptop and setting him up in Aoife’s office space with it. Sherlock still demanded attention but John no longer feared for the pub’s fittings or the sanitation of the kitchen when Aoife went upstairs to straighten the bedrooms. He had coaxed Sherlock into discussing the cases he had researched, the stretch of Moriarty’s web wide enough to challenge even Mycroft’s resources and John found himself glad in a way for Sherlock’s exile that had prevented the detective from running after the dangerous criminals that made up the network.

John was barely beginning to get his head around the links between several toy shops and a drugs ring in Sweden when a shrill ringing cut through the air, Sherlock reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He smiled at the caller ID.

“I think someone may have worked out where you are,” he said answering the phone, “Hello Molly.”

John couldn’t hear her words but he could hear her frantic tone, Sherlock’s smile widening the more worked up the young woman got.

“You’re a couple of days too late with your warning,” said Sherlock finally, “John arrived on Wednesday night but thank you for your concern. He knows everything but I’ve left the tale of our plan for you to tell as it was mostly you idea.”

Molly continued to ramble on the other end of the phone and John began to feel as though he was eavesdropping, getting to his feet only for Sherlock’s hand to take hold of his arm and tug him back down.

“We’re both fine,” said Sherlock, “We’ve talked and we’re fine. I’m sure John will catch up with you when he gets back. Now go back to work and stop fretting, I’ll speak to you Sunday.”

John could identify at least Molly’s farewell but was more taken by the fond look on Sherlock’s face as he ended the call.

“Molly knew that you hadn’t turned up the other day and wanted to talk to you but only got away long enough today,” said Sherlock, “She found out you’d taken leave and had mentioned Ireland when you booked it. She panicked of course.”

“I’ve never heard you speak so pleasantly to her,” said John, “I’m glad that she’s looking out for you.”

“She’s been the only connection I’ve had to home,” said Sherlock, “She’s been able to keep my up to date about most people; you, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and the others at Scotland Yard.”

John studied his friend’s face as his voice grew quieter as though wanting to add more but unable to. He knew the words that hung in the air, the news Sherlock had missed receiving for months, news of his family and especially of Evangeline. Before John gave it any conscious thought he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone, flicking through until he pressed down on a familiar number. He saw Sherlock’s pale eyes narrowing, trying to work out his actions before John set the phone on its loudspeaker and turned the phone to his friend. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm at the sight of his mother’s phone number and grabbed for the phone but John held it out of his reach as it was answered. 

“Holmes Residence.”

“Catterick, it’s Doctor Watson,” said John, stilling Sherlock’s protests with a raised hand as he spoke to the house’s butler, “Is Mrs Holmes home?”

“I believe she is sir, please hold on for a moment and I will connect you to her.”

“John what are you doing?” hissed Sherlock, “You can’t possibly be…”

“John dear, its so good to hear from you,” came Evangeline’s voice from the phone.

John saw the hastily covered emotion on his friend’s voice at the sound of Evangeline’s voice and smiled, “Hello Evangeline,” he said, “How’ve you been?”

“I was so worried when you left here Sunday night. I never meant to upset you. You’ve been such a dear friend to me, kept me going through all this and I’m so dreadfully sorry you left feeling the way you did.”

“It’s the past Evangeline, there’s no need for you to worry,” said John, reaching across the table to clasp his friend’s hand as he saw the pain on his face, “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“Will you come up this Saturday then? Let’s put aside last week and move on to happier things. We never did get to see the roses and I was thinking we could pick some and take them to Sherlock on Sunday. I need to be in London on Monday and was going to stay with Mycroft either way.”

John couldn’t help the smile on his face as he heard the slight groan in Evangeline’s voice as she mentioned staying with her first born, “I wish I could but I won’t be home this weekend. I’ve gone away for a while, was a bit last minute.”

“Away? Where are you?”

“With a very dear friend,” said John, setting his phone on the desk between him and Sherlock and reaching for the laptop his friend had been using, “I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you though, something you need to see.”

“Well then you’ll need to come home and show me,” said Evangeline, “I haven’t got one of those new fangled phone things all you kids have.”

John laughed, “I’ve not been called a kid in a while,” he said, “That computer Mycroft bought you has a webcam function. If I talk you through how to work it we can see each other.”

“Its in the study, I’ll put you through to there and be back on in a moment. Hold on for me?”

“Of course,” said John, hearing the click of the line before it went quiet.

“What on Earth are you doing John?” said Sherlock as John turned his attention from the phone to the laptop.

“Something that you should have done months ago,” he said, navigating his way to one of the systems he favoured when talking to his friends in Afghanistan.

“You surely aren’t intending…”

“Oh I’m very much intending,” said John, “She needs to know your alive but she won’t believe me if I just tell her. I have to show her. I can get her on a secure line, its an army thing and won’t be traceable. You know your mother Sherlock, she’ll keep the secret even from Mycroft if we ask her but she needs to know.”

“But I…”

John held a hand up, silencing him as the phone line clicked on once more, “Can you hear me ok still?”

“Loud and clear,” said Evangeline, “Just fighting with this infernal machine. I’ve got no idea why Mycroft bought it, I’d infinitely prefer a letter.”

John smirked, “I’ll stop emailing you then.”

“No! No John you mustn’t I love to hear from you,” said Evangeline, the clear sounds of a computer running through its start up echoing alongside her voice, “Now tell me what I need to do to get this camera thing working.”

John patiently instructed the woman through to the program she needed, all the while arranging his own computer and Sherlock into position, the younger man looking set to run from the room any moment if John didn’t keep an eye on him. He was finally satisfied with the set up, Sherlock in a position so he could see the screen but not be caught on the camera, picking up his phone and taking it off speaker.

“Ok I’m going to cut you off from here but I can see your icon on my screen so in a second I’ll call you back from the computer. Just answer the way I told you to and we’ll be able to talk.”

John waited a moment before he hung up the phone, turning to his friend, “She needs to see you but if you really don’t want to do this let me know now.”

Sherlock looked set to protest but nodded, “I want to see her… hearing her voice…”

“I know,” said John, “I’m going to call her, talk her into the idea that you’re alive before I let her see you. I’ve got the house on speed dial and if needs be I can get Catterick to her in minutes. She doesn’t seem the type of woman who’ll faint but this will be a shock.”

“What if she…”

“What?” said John, seeing the tremble in his friend’s hand.

“What if she won’t believe you?”

“She will,” said John, “She’ll see you. Now lean back and don’t get in front of the camera until I tell you.”

Sherlock did as he was told, leaning back in his chair in what would have been a position of nonchalance had it not been for the agitation on his face. John swiftly connected the call, his image appearing in the smaller of the two media screens before the larger image came into focus as the call was answered. The younger man barely stifled a yelp at the image of his mother and John reached across as best he could, capturing a hand without bringing it into view.

“Look at you,” said John with a fond smile, his voice forced to lightness, “You’ve had your hair done.”

Evangeline smiled warmly, “Well I am going to see my baby boy on Sunday and he wouldn’t have his Mummy looking all shabby,” she said, “Though of course I doubt Mycroft will even notice. You’re looking well too John. Where are you?”

John smiled, “Classified right now. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Ooh a mystery,” said Evangeline, “Will you give me a clue so I can fathom it out?”

John shook his head, “I’ll never need to ask where he gets it from,” he said, pausing as he noticed the sad smile on the face of the woman before him, “What’s the matter?”

“You used the present tense John, as though he was still with us,” she said, “I often catch myself doing the same.”

John felt Sherlock’s hand tighten in his, the pain in his mother’s voice affecting him as it would any son despite his constant claims of being above such emotions. John knew he had to take pity on the pair and quickly ran his eyes over the image of Evangeline, noting at least that there was nothing nearby liable to do her harm if she fainted from shock.

“Evangeline there’s something I need to tell you,” he said, “And it will be a bit of a shock. I know when I left on Sunday I was behaving strangely but it wasn’t because of what you told me, it was about something I had received in the mail at Baker Street but only opened at yours.”

Evangeline’s eyes narrowed, her expression so similar to her son’s whenever he was trying to fathom out more than words were telling him, “What was it?”

“A letter,” said John, “Or more importantly plane tickets and a brief note in a hand I’d only seen hours before in your parlour. The letter was from Sherlock, Evangeline.”

The woman’s expression wavered, “I don’t understand.”

John felt tears prick his eyes as he regarded her, knowing that she had been the only one who had shared the suffering as keenly with him, “What did we dream?” he said, “When we spent the nights talking in your parlour when I lived there with you. What was the one thing we wished for above all else Evangeline?”

“Him…oh God John don’t tease…don’t…”

“Sherlock sent me those tickets Evangeline, sent them to me a day before I came to you,” he said, “I didn’t use them, I couldn’t believe it but then I got on a plane, I came here and everything we ever dreamed was waiting for me.”

Evangeline sat openly weeping at his words but her expression was conflicted, “I don’t …I can’t… John please don’t say this if it isn’t true.”

“I can prove it,” said John tugging on the hand he held, “Sherlock’s alive Evangeline, so alive.”

John left his seat, pulling the other man into it and hearing the astonished squeak from Evangeline as she saw her son.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said quietly, saying no more as he saw Sherlock’s fingers come to rest on the screen over his mother’s image.

He hurried from the room, knowing the time was for mother and son alone and not wanting to intrude. He successfully headed Aoife off when she returned from the rooms upstairs, the woman’s eyes filling with tears at the thought of Sherlock finally having contact with the only other person he had truly missed. They both waited in the bar, talking over nothing but still managing to pass the time, only pausing occasionally when they heard the sound of Sherlock’s muffled voice, the emotion apparent even from such a distance.

It had been a good hour at least before the sound of footsteps drew them from their conversation. John looked up to see his friend stood against the door to the back room, his eyes red rimmed from crying but far brighter than he had seen them since his arrival in the village.

“Mummy said to say goodbye to you,” he said, his voice rough, “She says you’re to call in a few days.”

John nodded as he got to his feet, “Are you alright?”

Sherlock nodded but paused and then shook his head, “I want to go home.”

“I’ll make us some tea,” said Aoife, getting to her feet and heading passed Sherlock into the kitchen, pausing briefly to squeeze his shoulder.

“I’m sorry if it was too much for you,” said John, “But I thought it was for the best.”

Sherlock absently scratched the back of his head, his gaze cast towards the floor in agitation, “No…it was…needed,” he said, “Seeing Mummy…I’ve missed her. Thank you.”

John smiled, “You’re more than welcome,” he said, “She’s missed you so desperately I couldn’t have gone on in good conscience knowing you were alive and not tell her.”

“She’s very fond of you,” said Sherlock, brushing absently at his cheek as a stray tear broke loose without his permission, “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am for you taking care of her.”

“We’ve taken care of each other,” said John, “From the minute I met her I knew she and I would be friends. She kept me sane, when I couldn’t go home and she took me to Yorkshire with her.”

Sherlock managed a wry smile, “And spent your time embarrassing me with baby photos.”

“Well you were adorable once upon a time,” said John, “Come and sit down, you’re too far away.”

Sherlock came without complaint, sitting down opposite his friend with a tired sigh, “I’m glad she knows but she’ll keep things quiet until we tell her otherwise,” he said, “She’s also going to avoid Mycroft and go next week, can’t trust her not to be all giddy and American and get him onto something. I don’t need him sniffing about, not yet.”

“He’ll be the one best placed to bring you home,” said John, “But until you’re ready I’m happy to keep you a secret with Evangeline, she and I got rather good at keeping things from him.”

Sherlock smiled, reaching tentatively across the table and covered John’s hand with his own, “Thank you John.”

Neither of them seemed to realise that their hands stayed joined until Aoife returned with the tea and even then they parted without embarrassment and with a smile.


	7. The Fall

John’s hope that talking to Evangeline would bring Sherlock a little peace was swiftly proved wrong as the day wore on. Although he seemed happy enough in the afternoon by the evening he began to grow quiet and withdrawn, even when the tourists announced they wished to stay another night and descended on the bar. At first his persona just seemed a little more forced as he worked the bar but soon he was distant, wandering from the bar and taking a seat in the far window. When John’s attempts to coax him out of himself fell short he gave up the fight for lost and turned to help Aoife instead, the woman’s concern for her employee palpable. 

It was late when the bar finally cleared but Sherlock barely moved, not even reacting when the music had started. John managed at least to coax him from the chair, collecting their things before he herded him towards home, wanting nothing more than to try and talk to him but knowing that it would be futile. When they reached the cottage John was glad that Sherlock at least came inside even if it was only to curl himself into the single chair, expression introverted with barely any recognition to the world around him. John readied himself for bed and managed to get a serviceable cup of tea out of the old copper kettle. He set a cup beside Sherlock but knew he would find it untouched in the morning. He bid his friend goodnight, fatigue finally winning over worry and dragging him into sleep.

When he woke in the morning he found himself alone, Sherlock’s bed still made from the day before save for the warmest comforter which had been laid over John during the night. An irrational panic took him and John had almost thrown himself out of the door in nothing but his pyjamas when he realised he wouldn’t have a clue where to begin to look. He had to take several minutes to calm himself before he decided to trust in his friend and hope that he brought himself home unharmed. At a loss for anything better to do he dressed and headed towards the pub, checking his phone for any messages as he walked before he realised that in the confusion of their reunion they had not exchanged their new numbers.

Aoife had been unsurprised by Sherlock’s disappearance, the landlady having grown used to his wanderings over the five months of their acquaintance. John had helped out as best he could in the bar, the busy work keeping him from worrying too much but it did nothing to ease the odd ache that had settled behind his ribs since he’d woken alone in the cottage. He was concerned for Sherlock but the feeling went deeper, missing his friend’s presence even more so than he had done when he had believed he was dead. When he had been in mourning a romantic part of him had believed that Sherlock, in spirit at least, had been at his side but with him alive John felt his absence far more keenly. It wasn’t a new feeling, John had grown used to missing his best friend when either a case or one of his odd moods had taken him away.

As the day moved into night John caught himself watching from the windows of the pub and had even got Sherlock’s number from Aoife, pride alone stopping him from sending more than one text enquiring after his friend. It was late when he got a reply, the text informing John that its sender was well and would be home by morning. It hadn’t been much but it had comforted him and he had returned to the cottage slightly brighter than he had left it. 

Sherlock still was not home and John readied himself for bed in the silence of the room, the quiet almost unbearable after the chatter of the locals in the bar. He snuggled down on the ratty mattress that made his bed, keeping Sherlock’s comforter as both its warmth and the lingering scent alleviated the knot beneath his sternum. He finally caught himself as he pulled the covering closer, pressing it to his nose and pushed it away but only as far as his shoulders. He lay, staring up at the ceiling that danced with the light from the fire, his heart a little faster in his chest than it should be as his senses were full of the man whose presence permeated every inch of the cottage even in his absence. 

He turned onto his side as he pushed away the thoughts that were trying to force their way into his mind. He came face to face with the piles of mismatched pillows on Sherlock’s bed but it was the sheaths of notepaper beneath that caught his attention. He had seen them before when he had tidied the bed but had left them, knowing they were now doubt far more private to his friend than the other items that littered the room. He would have left them again had he not recognised his own handwriting and reached forward to drag it out. 

He felt tears jump to his eyes as he recognised the handwritten eulogy he had prepared for Sherlock’s funeral. The ink was smudged from the tears that had fallen on it when he had tried to read it out. He remembered stumbling over the opening words and barely making it halfway down the page before emotion had overcome him. He had blocked out much of the memory but he had remembered the small hand that had taken the paper from him, Molly’s voice clear and strong as she had read the heartfelt passage. John remembered the stab of pain to his heart when Molly had read the words that had closed the passage, the words John had seemed to etch over his own heart the moment he’d written. ‘Goodbye my amazing, brilliant, beautiful best friend.’

John sat up as he read over the words he had never got to say, realising with equal measures of pain and joy that Molly had taken the note from the church and given it to Sherlock. He closed his eyes as he realised how tatty and thin the paper had become, testament to the number of times it had been handled, folded and refolded, and wondered how much of a prop the one note had been to Sherlock in the dark nights at the cottage. He had felt so alone after he’d watched the coffin covered with earth but he had been surrounded by friends, adopted into the oddest of families, given all the support he had needed but Sherlock had been alone. Molly had been a voice on the phone alone, while Aoife had been more prominent but she was not a close friend. Sherlock abhorred inane chatter but his acquaintance was forced as such, none of the people he associated with of the sort that the consulting detective would choose to associate himself with. As John opened his eyes he looked once more at the paper before he set it back beneath Sherlock’s pillow with a silent promise that he would never again be left with just a few words for company. 

He finally settled to sleep but it was far from restful, plagued with nightmares but they were not of Afghanistan, instead his mind furnished him with images of Sherlock broken and bloodied on the pavement before Bart’s. John tried to shake off the dream but sleep kept hold of him and the vision kept replaying until something stemmed the flow. Even in his sleep he pressed up into the firm hand on his shoulder as a low voice whisper words of comfort to him. He felt a hand take his gently and, when the grip remained, his sleep at last was peaceful.

xxxx

“John Watson, stop being such a lazy thing and get up.”

The words had barely pierced the fog of John’s sleep before a pillow hit him firmly on his shoulder and he rolled onto his back with a groan.

“What?”

“Up. Things to do,” said Sherlock from where he sat perched on the chair.

John rubbed his eyes as he sat up, taking in his friend from the pale blue chuck tailors to the grey hoody beneath a black leather jacket, “My God you look ten years younger in that get up you bastard,” he muttered good naturedly, “I take it you’re feeling better.”

Sherlock said nothing as he hopped down from the chair, “No point lying around all day,” he said, as he began pulling clothes from John’s bag without a care for anything matching, “We have things to do.”

“What things?” said John, trying to make some sense of his clothes that were now strewn across his bed, “We can’t have a case…can we?”

“We have the capability to have a case,” said Sherlock, tugging on his arms, “But not the means currently. Now come on John.”

“Alright, alright you mad man, put me down,” said John as Sherlock’s enthusiasm having him almost toppling onto the stone floor, “What can be that interesting at Aoife’s?”

“We’re not going to Aoife’s,” said Sherlock finally leaving John alone and climbing into the open window frame with an impish grace, “Sundays are my day off so we are taking your car and we are heading out.”

John slipped behind the curtain into the bathroom, sleep still hanging on him as he went through his morning routine on autopilot, “Last time I checked my car was under Padraig’s watchful gaze.”

“He fixed it yesterday,” said Sherlock, “I saw him and he told me to tell you.”

John said nothing about the message being somewhat delayed, instead hurrying through in excitement of what sort of adventure he was going to be dragged on. When he emerged he saw Sherlock stood impatiently at the door, a blanket from the bed wrapped around a rough bundle in his arms, his laptop stuck beneath his arm. John followed him out into the morning light, the temperature already balmy and promising a warm day. They headed up the hill and John watched on confused as, despite his protestations it was his day off, Sherlock headed to the pub. He knocked on the front door and Aoife appeared soon after, handing him a packed basket with a smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she waved at John and headed back inside.

“Here, make yourself useful,” said Sherlock, waving the basket in John’s direction, “But no peeking.”

John smiled and took the basket, “And how long have you been setting this up?” he said as they crossed to Padraig’s front yard, his car parked neatly at the front. 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and retrieved the keys, leaving John wondering just when he had managed to steal them this time as he unlocked the car and placed his scrappy bundle in the boot. John set the basket within and headed to the driver’s door only to be bustled out of the way.

“I’ll let you ride shot gun if you promise to keep your head in the window,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock this is a hire car, not mine, you’re not insured to drive it.”

“Then I’ll keep it out of the ditch,” said Sherlock, folding himself into the driver’s seat and muttering about having to adjust the seat.

John knew when to pick his battles and clambered into the passenger seat as Sherlock fiddled with the radio, finding a station he liked and pulling them away from Padraig’s with a lot more respect for the car than he had shown for the bike. It didn’t take long for John to work out that they were headed back to the beach Sherlock had taken him to the day after he arrived. He had been reluctant to let the detective drive but so far he had attempted any handbrake turns or impossible feats of speed so John was content to sit back and enjoy the ride while some classical radio channel blasted music at decibels usually reserved for rap music. When they finally arrived Sherlock all but bounded out of the car and retrieved his hastily wrapped bundle from the boot, throwing the keys at John as though locking a vehicle was far below the world’s only consulting detective. John retrieved the basket Aoife had given them, using the moment to peer inside even though Sherlock had forbidden it and smiling as he saw the picnic contained therein. 

John navigated his way down to the favoured cliff edge, Sherlock having the advantage of experience and long legs which had allowed him to disappear from sight. By the time John reached him he had already spread out the tatty blankets on the floor, a pile of poorly folded towels bunched beside him before he retrieved his laptop from the mass and set it with a reverence beside him.

“Do I get told what’s going on now?” said John.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “I’m sure you can make a suitable deduction.”

“Last time I checked Sherlock Holmes didn’t sit by a beach and have picnics.”

“The same Sherlock Holmes never makes coffee either, unless by way of apology.”

John smiled, “Last time you made coffee it was to drug me, not apologise to me.”

Sherlock waved a hand, “Semantics,” he said, “And all that aside I disappeared on you after a perfectly kind gesture and now I am attempting to make it up to you. I have a day off, the weather is threatening an Indian Summer and I have six months to make up for.”

John set the basket down as he took a seat at the opposite edge of the blanket, “Sherlock you don’t need to make up for anything,” he said, “I understand why you did what you did and I also understand why you went off yesterday.”

“John sit back and let me do something nice for you for a change,” said the young man as he toed off his shoes and settled with the cliff at his back, “I’m sure before too long I’ll be driving you mad again.”

Sherlock’s tone was light but John heard the plea behind it and nodded in acquiescence, knowing that his friend had planned the day as much for himself as he had for John. They had been apart for too long and there were wounds that needed to heal. Sherlock had never been the best at emotions but John knew the ham-handed gesture before him was Sherlock’s way of representing just how much his absence had cost him.

John sat back against the cliff side next to his friend, the view below them bathed in sunlight and even more breath taking than he remembered. The laptop was opened and John heard a familiar tapping but it was not the frantic pace of research and he knew it was merely busy work for the man beside him.

“Tell me about everyone back home?” said Sherlock, his voice quiet against the lull of the waves, “Has Mrs Hudson found another useless male to promise her cruises whilst hiding a wife?”

“Not that she’s brought home but she did threaten me with a cat about three months ago,” said John, “Allegedly I needed a companion.”

“She expected you to replace me with a cat?” said Sherlock indignantly.

“Its not far off really, independent, sleek, snooty and only affectionate when its after something,” said John, watching the playful steel settle in his friend’s eyes. 

“Me-ow,” Sherlock deadpanned, his smile barely restrained as John burst into peals of laughter, “So long as you do not expect me to use the litter basket when I return home I will happily replace any cat Mrs Hudson forces upon you.”

“Deal,” said John, toeing off his shoes, “You leave a trail of destruction in your wake but at least you won’t shed fur.”

Sherlock smirked, “Its always a very interesting trail of destruction though.”

“Interesting, disgusting, I suppose it’s a matter of perception,” said John, “If you want disgusting though rumour has it that Anderson and Donovan have gone official, so to speak.”

“That was not something that I needed to know,” grimaced Sherlock, “Though I lament the state of poor Sally’s knees.”

Their laughter was not to be contained and it broke through the final layer that had seemed to exist between them as they both reminisced on old memories and John filled him in on the gossip he had been privy to despite his separation from Scotland Yard.

The conversation continued well passed midday, the picnic Aoife had packed them easily decimated and left in piles of detritus on their blanket, interspersed now and then by the odd items of clothing they had discarded in the heat; shoes, socks, jumpers and jackets making up the scene. John opened a lazy eye from where he sat dozing against the cliff at his back. He smiled to himself at the almost childlike pose his friend had worked himself into, sprawled on his stomach with his arms propped on one of the rolled up towels to allow him to continue to beat out a steady tattoo on the laptop before him. He had one leg bent up at the knee, the cuff of his jeans tumbling towards his knee under gravity’s pull to reveal a long creamy calf. As he flexed his foot the musculature was better defined and John couldn’t help but admire the demonstration of the wiry strength his friend had always possessed.

In a still somewhat sleepy state John let his eyes droop lower, his gaze running over the denim pulled tight over Sherlock’s thighs and further still until he realised just where his gaze was lingering and shook it away. He saw Sherlock stiffen slightly and was unsurprised when his voice drifted over.

“Back in the land of the living are we?”

“Mmm-hmm,” murmured John with a stretch, “I have no intention of missing this peace and quiet.”

“Which one of us was likened to a cat earlier?” said Sherlock, “There’s better things to do than sleep John. That, for instance, looks like a lot of fun.”

John allowed his eyes to focus a little more to where Sherlock was pointing, seeing a gang of youths no more than eighteen and all clad in baggy bathers daring each other towards the cliff edge. He saw what was coming a moment before it happened as one of the boys leapt from the edge of the cliff and plummeted towards to waters below. The other boys whooped and cheered, peering over until their cries grew louder as their friend appeared and gave them an over the top thumbs up. The physician in John immediately cringed and the drop and the rocks that surrounded where the boy was now swimming with two of his predecessors into the water, getting themselves out of the way as another of their band hit the spray.

“That is not fun Sherlock,” he said, “That is tombstoning and it is idiotic and dangerous.”

Sherlock snorted inelegantly, “Its no worse than a high dive at a swimming pool.”

“Except for the cliff, the rocks, the undertow and the waves that could smash you against the cliff face if you hit them wrong,” said John, grabbing Sherlock’s raised foot as he noticed the man tense as though to stand, “Don’t you bloody dare Sherlock Holmes.”

“Should I start calling you Mummy?” said Sherlock over his shoulder before he shook John’s hand off and sat up, “Fine, spoil sport, I won’t go.”

“You’d better not,” said John, “You’re far more intelligent than those apes even if you have no sense of personal danger so do not go in the water.”

“The water won’t hurt me.”

John sighed in exasperation, “Since you are determined to be petulant then,” he said, “Do not go in the water via a very high drop from a very jagged cliff. If you want to swim go down to the beach and get in in a sensible manner so I don’t have to call a life guard.”

Sherlock pouted but then got to his feet, shucking off his clothes as though it was the most normal act in front of his friend, “Fine,” he said, chucking his t-shirt and jeans onto the ever growing pile of clothes and snagging one of the towels.

John felt a blush creep onto his cheeks as he saw his friend in little more than a pair of tight, black boxers that left very little to the imagination. In a vain attempt at self preservation he turned his gaze back to the youths still coaxing one another in but addressed his friend.

“Enjoy yourself then but not a toe towards the cliff.”

John didn’t turn to look but he caught the jaunty approximation of the salute that was thrown in his direction before Sherlock began to pick his way down the cliff to the beach below. John shook his head and turned back to watch him go, starkly pale against the dark stone of the cliff and his own black shorts. He took up Sherlock’s former position, laid out on his stomach, and watched as Sherlock hit the beach, dropping his towel before he waded into the water without any preamble. John felt somewhat like a hawk as he kept his eyes firmly trained on the younger man but he’d seen too many emergencies brought in where people had been pulled down or out to sea by rip tides they hadn’t expected. He knew that Sherlock would have swum in the waters below before but John still kept his eyes trained on his form as he cut an easy path through the water.

The warm, knotty feeling settled in John’s chest once more but he couldn’t rationalise it against the firelight and the silence as he did the night before. He knew his body had reacted when Sherlock’s impromptu striptease had begun but he also knew it wasn’t the first time he had felt something unexplained in relation to his friend. It had started long before even Moriarty had had any sort of feature in their lives, before the pool that had exposed their devotion as friends. It had been in the oddest moments; watching Sherlock leap from chair to chair in the living room in search of stashed cigarettes, sitting watching James Bond movies and likening Sally Donovan to the least attractive and more vindictive female characters, laughing together at Mycroft’s expense or playfully teasing Mrs Hudson whenever she got herself worked up.

There were other moments though, more poignant and yet more fleeting that John could remember in the brightest of detail. Sherlock’s hopeless attempt at cooking the one time John had berated him for never doing so, the moment he had fastened his scarf around John’s neck when he had been late for work and been unable to find his own. John smiled at the memory, remembering the material being swung around his neck from behind with a gentleness more intended to garrotte him but the gesture had meant a lot, the scarf the last thing he had taken off when he reached the surgery. The moment that stood out the most though was a mere fleeting thirty seconds long and silent. It had been a terrible case, children had died and the killer had taken his own life just as Sherlock was closing in on him. There was no justice and they had all known it. Sherlock had been quiet all the way back to Baker Street and John had feared a prolonged period of depression when they stepped inside their flat. He had headed to make the tea, hoping he could get Sherlock to ingest something at least before it truly set in, and had been startled when he felt a strong hand on his arm. He had turned to see the pale eyes downcast and had nearly spoken when Sherlock had merely leant forward and laid his head on John’s shoulder. The touch was so brief that John’s free hand had only just twitched into life in an attempt to hold his friend before Sherlock had pulled away and moved to his bedroom, the door closing firmly behind him.

John rolled onto his back as he stared up at the sun, the memory as fresh as the moment it had happened. Sherlock meant so much to him, had always meant so much but John was afraid now that he knew of what the detective had hidden. He’d never encouraged the affection, never wanted it but his treacherous mind threw up images that had him scowling; Sherlock’s affections turned elsewhere, to Lestrade, to Sebastian, to the young man in the shop down the road from Baker Street who always seemed all the brighter when John walked in with Sherlock beside him. 

“Stop it,” John scolded himself, glad there was no one nearby.

He rolled back on his stomach, his eyes immediately going to the water and he frowned when he couldn’t see his friend. Panic gripped him as he looked to the beach and then further out, hoping he’d not swum to far. Instinct alone pulled his eyes to the cliffs, the youths long since gone off to other pursuits but one figure stood on the edge. John froze as he saw Sherlock push off from the edge of the cliff, turning an elegant arch before he headed to the water. Silence crashed onto John’s consciousness as he watched his friend fall and in his mind he saw once more the flurry of a coat flying behind him and pavement, not water beneath him.

“Sherlock no!” he cried, the sound ripped from his throat in anguish as he heard the crash of the long body hitting the waves, “Come up, come up you idiot.”

The chant held little power though and his heart faltered as Sherlock failed to surface. It wasn’t training that kicked him and had him running down the cliff, it was sheer panic and a need to find him, to pull him from the depths and protect him. He hit the beach, the pebbles doing little to slow his pace and neither did the figure he saw walking far too calming from the shallows towards the shore. John didn’t care for the water lapping at his ankles as he reached the water, his eyes intent as he grabbed the younger man roughly by his arms, shaking him almost violently.

“What the fuck were you playing at?” he said, seeing the surprise and the twinge of fear in Sherlock’s eyes as his fingers dug into the pale flesh of his upper arms, “I begged you not to jump. I told you how dangerous it was.”

“Nothing happened to me John,” said Sherlock, the shock leaving him even if his hands came up to rest on John’s raised arms, “I checked the depth and the position of the rocks, with the correct angle I was not at any risk.”

“A thousand things could have effected that, you idiot,” said John, feeling the tears prick his eyes, “A gust of wind, a sudden wave and moment of lost concentration and you would have been…oh God Sherlock, I’ve watched you fall once and I couldn’t…”

It seemed the logical action as John watched Sherlock’s mouth move to retort, it was to silence him that John moved a hand to the back of his friend’s neck and tugged him down, meeting his lips with his own. John’s heart leapt in his chest as he felt Sherlock’s reaction to the kiss, warm, soft lips that tasted of sea salt moving against his own. The moment was broken though as John heard a muffled sob before Sherlock wrenched himself from his grip. The younger man looked a heartbeat from tears, his face a picture of distress; cheeks flushed and eyes bright with moisture.

“John don’t,” he begged, “Don’t, not if you don’t mean it.”

“And what if I mean it?” said John, his hands taking hold of Sherlock’s arms once more and seeing the hope that lit his friend’s eyes.

“John I’m begging you, I need you to want this. Don’t do this to me, not if you’re not sure. Please, I’m your friend, please.”

“And what if I mean it?” said John again, seeing the crystalline eyes cataloguing every aspect of him, widening in surprise at what they found.

“Then don’t stop,” said Sherlock.

John didn’t have to drag him down as Sherlock’s lips met his once more, a passion he had seen directed only ever to the cases they solved being focused entirely on him and he knew it would overwhelm him. He welcomed it, caring nothing for the sea that still lapped around them, for any of his old arguments, for the perception of anyone else; all that mattered was Sherlock’s kiss and the soft sounds he made which fell into a groan as John brushed his tongue against the plush lips, begging entrance. John revelled in the younger man’s tremor as he deepened the kiss, it was inelegant and clumsy but John was sure he’d never known anything to rival it. He gently released the kiss but only far enough to allow him to speak, punctuating his words with a kiss after each one.

“My amazing…brilliant…beautiful…best…friend,” he said, knowing Sherlock would recognise the words.

He saw the tears that had broken loose and coursed down Sherlock’s pale cheeks, white lines in the faint blush that had taken him. He brought his hands up and gently wiped them away with the pads of his thumbs.

“Should I be offended that a kiss from me made you cry?”

Sherlock leant forward and pressed his forehead to John’s, “I never once thought…” he said before he closed his eyes with a sigh, “John…”

John hushed him, dropping a hand to the back of his neck and fussing the soaked curls he found there, “I never once thought either but the thought of losing you again, seeing you fall; it made things a lot clearer.”

“You don’t like men,” said Sherlock even as his hands came to rest at John’s waist.

“Not in general,” said John, “But you…”

“But me?”

“You saved my life and you fill it up. You gave me so much and every moment I’m with you I’m in awe of you. You are so amazing and you still ask why,” said John, pressing a swift kiss to his lips, “My Sherlock.”

John was glad he had a firm grip on the man before him as he felt him buckle at the endearment, his breath an astonished gasp. He stroked the black curls in his hand gently, feeling Sherlock’s hand tighten at his waist in a clear attempt to verify everything that had transpired. John kept as quiet as he could, his hands rather than his voice speaking his affections. It was only when he felt the younger man shiver that the reality of their situation permeated the silence.

“You’re freezing,” said John, his hand moving to raise Sherlock’s head enough to meet his eyes, “Let’s get you warm then we can talk.”

Sherlock nodded, grey eyes still confused and yet watching every moment for what it could tell him. John stepped back, taking his hand before he turned back to the shore, only to be pulled to a dead stop when Sherlock didn’t follow.

“What’s the matter?”

“This has to be real John,” said Sherlock, his voice broken, “I can’t…You can’t…this can’t just be some reason to keep me safe, to try and change me. If you really want this you need to want me, as I am, all that I am. I need this to be real.”

John brought the hand he was holding to his lips and kissed the back of it, “I want every inch of you, exactly as you are,” he said, “I had eighteen months with you, getting to know you and when I thought you’d died I knew I would miss every single thing you did. I never want you to change because you never asked me to. As for trying to keep you safe, I would love to but I know it would be like trying to tame the wind so instead I want to be there beside you and I want to barrel into danger with you.”

Sherlock smiled, eyes brightening, “I never wanted anyone else beside me,” he said, finally relenting as John led him back onto the beach.

John snagged the discarded towel and pulled it around his friend’s shoulders, dispelling some of the chill the dip in the Atlantic had caused. He kept tight hold of his hand as they climbed back up to the sun baked cliff but the closer they got the more tension John felt in his companion. He turned as they reached the blanket, Sherlock taking a moment to notice the movement and bringing them almost toe to toe. John took the advantage and raised himself up to press a kiss once more to his lips, gently coaxing until he received a response. He felt the exact moment when Sherlock stopped questioning and gave himself up for sensation and John used the moment to guide them both to the blanket.

Sherlock went willingly, even when the kiss was forced to break by the movement, pillowing his head on John’s arm as the doctor pulled the edge of the blanket over to cover him, cocooning him in both the material and his arms to bypass the chill. John lay back, the movement bringing Sherlock’s head to his shoulder and he pressed a kiss into his hair.

“You may need to pinch me at some point, I’m sure I’m dreaming,” said Sherlock, his arm slipping almost tentatively up onto John’s chest.

John clasped the fingers as they came to rest against him, “Weird sort of dual dreaming then,” he said.

“Why though?” said Sherlock, the familiar bluntness almost comforting, “You were always so quick to put anyone right when they made assumptions about us and when we spoke the other day I never once thought this was something that you’d ever entertain.”

“Before when we were back home in London,” said John, tightening the arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, “It was easier to deny anything I guess. You were a friend and that friendship grew but if ever my thoughts strayed I could distract myself, lie to myself. I’d noticed you Sherlock but I kept telling myself it was nothing more than our friendship.”

“And now?”

“You left me,” said John, his hands tightening at the memory, “When you died I went back to my therapist and she knew I had something I wanted to say and I knew it too but it felt wrong. I thought it was the grief, missing you that prompted it. I threw myself into looking out for Evangeline, comforting her rather than confronting anything. It was working as well until she showed me your letter but then everything I knew changed. I couldn’t think about the what ifs then, it hurt too much and it was because I didn’t want to think about what we could have had, what you could have been doing at three in the morning other than playing your damn violin.”

Sherlock pressed his face a little closer against John’s neck and it only took the doctor a moment to realise he was hiding a blush at the insinuation. The knowledge warmed him and he felt his own body react to the thought, knowing Sherlock would feel the increase in his heart rate beneath his hand.

“When I got your letter and finally dared to come here I was so relieved you were alive but I was worried so much had changed. When we sat here before and you worked out what your mum had told me I didn’t know what to do but since then, these past few days when I’ve been watching you I came to realise that all you wrote in your letter to her I could have written as well,” said John, “My Sherlock. I felt jealous when the girls in the bar were flirting with you and I missed you so much when you wandered off yesterday, so much that I could only sleep with your comforter wrapped around me. The thought of being without you is unbearable and it hurts.”

“John,” said Sherlock softly, raising his head and kissing him, “I promise I won’t wander off again.”

John smiled, “You will, its how you’re made up,” he said, “But if you come home and do this, I’ll forgive you.”

“I think I can manage that,” said Sherlock, his kisses growing surer, “And I’m sure I can find something other than playing my violin to do at three in the morning.”

John’s response wasn’t verbalised but it was vocal enough as he tugged the younger man close, determined that any lingering doubts would be swiftly pushed away.


	8. Fretting

John smiled lazily as tentative fingers quested beneath the hem of his t-shirt, the touch light as though asking permission to continue. He had been surprised at Sherlock’s hesitance when he had grown so used to the detective jumping into any experience with two feet and little consideration but it seemed romance wasn’t to be treated with the same attitude. John wasn’t sure of how long it had been since they had returned from the water, the sun drying them both and still warm enough for them to be comfortable. Not that they would have noticed any chill, pressed together as they were with the need for words abandoned. 

Any conversation had been forgotten in favour of kisses, some soft and almost shy while some were deeper, fusing them closer each time until John was certain Sherlock no longer doubted his affections. Anything beyond a kiss though would pull a tremor of surprise from his companion and John kept his touches light, reminded of innocent moments he had known in his adolescence when everything was new and a little alarming. When John had first slipped a hand from the seemingly innocent areas of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, down onto his chest he had been met with a shudder so violent from the younger man that he feared he’d hurt him. Sherlock had keened softly in his arms before pressing John’s hand down over his heart, pulling back from the kiss to look down at the touch. It had taken several moments to relax Sherlock back into his embrace and John had retreated to the safer areas once more so the feel of Sherlock’s questing fingers was welcomed.

“You’re never usually this tentative with your things,” said John, feeling the spidery fingers stroking and mapping the skin they found.

“You’re not property John,” said Sherlock, the harsh tone of his words being chased out by something close to a purr as John ran his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t belong to you,” said John, “You don’t have to be so timid.”

Sherlock’s hand grew a little bolder, tracing up over John’s torso and bunching the shirt’s material as he went. John shut his eyes and enjoyed the touch, wondering how something that had once seemed so alien to him could feel so perfect. With Harry as a sister he had always wondered about attraction to someone of his own sex but it had never materialised, girls had always been his choice but even with the ones he had foolishly thought himself in love with he had never felt such electricity in a touch. He felt Sherlock move but kept his eyes shut, knowing that he had propped himself on an elbow to better watch John’s reactions. The hand stilled as it reached his sternum, flattening out with fingers spread like a star.

“You’ve never had a man touch you before,” came Sherlock’s voice, “Every move I make and you’re cataloguing it.”

“You’ve never touched me this way before,” said John, “I want to remember this.”

“John I’m not a girl,” said Sherlock, his hand leaving its place as he rolled away from him and onto his back.

John opened his eyes and moved onto his side, mimicking Sherlock’s position from moments before, “I know, there were a few things that gave you away,” he said, smoothing a hand over the flat, ivory stomach before him, letting his gaze take in the rest of the form laid out before him.

“You’re not gay though,” said Sherlock, his body refusing to fully cooperate as he pressed up into John’s touch.

“Neither are you,” said John recalling the conversation only a week before that had changed every perception he had ever had of his friend.

Sherlock’s eyes shot open and then narrowed in confusion, “I think confessing my feelings for my rather male flat mate would have placed me at least somewhat in that camp.”

“And yet you’ve never had a boyfriend or a girlfriend,” said John, kissing one of the high sharp cheekbones before him, “Until me.”

“You’re point being?”

“Your mother is a very wise woman,” said John moving his lips to Sherlock’s jaw, dropping his voice, “He’s Sherlock and he fell in love.”

“What?”

“You’re not a label Sherlock and neither am I,” said John continuing to pepper the long white neck with kisses, “You fell for me and I’m falling for you, gender be damned. I’ve never felt like this for anyone else before.”

Sherlock’s hand came to his cheek, tilting him up to his kiss, “No one has ever come near what I feel for you,” he said honestly, “No one ever could. From the first day I met you there was no one else who I could bear to spend a few moments of time with. So ordinary and normal and one of the crowd and yet you stood out and you confused me, challenged me, made me want to be better. You made everything better John and even now I don’t understand why.”

“Not everything needs to be explained,” said John, “Not right away. Just lie back and let it happen.”

“Its terrifying,” said Sherlock.

John kissed him, keeping close as he spoke, “If you fall this time I’ll be able to catch you.”

Sherlock smiled, the expression so genuine it made him look far younger, “That’s a fairly robust promise Doctor Watson.”

“One I’ve not made lightly,” said John, “This is us now and you’re stuck with me until you don’t want me anymore.”

“I’ll never not want you,” said Sherlock taking John’s hand and placing it against his neck, right against the pulse point “Mo Chuisle.”

“What does that mean?” said John, “It sounds so lovely.”

“I’ll tell you one day,” said Sherlock, with a kiss before he frowned at the sudden chill in the air, “The sun’s going down, we should head back.”

“You’d be warmer if you were wearing a little more,” said John as they both sat up, his hands moving unbidden to the flawless pale lines of the detective’s back, “Not that I’m complaining.”

Sherlock leaned back into the touch the pursuit of getting up seeming abandoned as he offered no protest to John’s arms around him, “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Well I could reciprocate now or we could head home where its warmer and neither us would be shown at a disadvantage.” 

Sherlock fell almost boneless against him, “You’re going to have to let me go if you want to head home because I have absolutely no inclination to move right now.”

John reached for Sherlock’s discarded sweatshirt and manoeuvred it around him before he settled him back in his arms, “I guess we could stay a little longer,” he said, as the sun began to cast a red hue over the ocean before them.

xxxx

The sun had disappeared when they finally dressed properly and returned to the car, Sherlock clambering into the passenger’s seat much to John’s surprise but the intent had been revealed when John felt the bright, intelligent eyes turned on him for the entire journey back. He cursed that he had not elected to hire an automatic when he was forced to take his hand away to change gears when all he wanted was to leave it cradled in Sherlock’s grip. When they arrived at the cottage John didn’t envy Sherlock as he braved the cold of the shower, the salt from the sea beginning to aggravate him half way along the road from the beach. John listened to the hitch in the water as the younger man stepped beneath the spray, the sound reminding him that nothing but a thin curtain stood between them. He stayed where he was though, taking the few moments of separation to rationalise the day and finding he could do little to keep the smile from his face.

He considered lighting the fire in the hearth but Sherlock had mentioned eating at the pub and he knew there would be little point when they would just put it out again. He frowned at the thought of the cold water Sherlock was enduring and the thought of putting himself through the same treatment. He’d never lived in a house with an open fire until Baker Street but he’d always been fastidious in snuffing it out whenever they left the room, terrified he would return to find the living room alight. He smiled to himself as he realised that living with Sherlock involved things far more volatile than a fireplace that could render the flat uninhabitable but still the habit remained. 

He looked up at the curtain again and he fingers twitched with the desire to step behind it but he pushed it away, instead tidying the beds that they’d left in such a rush that morning. He looked down at the double mattress that made up Sherlock’s bed and the single that made up his, wondering if the smaller one would soon be superfluous. He heard the curtain move before two arms wrapped around his waist, freezing water droplets tickling his skin as Sherlock rested his chin on his shoulder. He fidgeted but not enough to break the grip, revelling in the easy closeness.

“Better?” he said.

“I no longer feel like sandpaper but now I’m freezing,” said Sherlock, “You could have lit the fire.”

“I thought we were heading out.”

“We are, I usually leave it on anyway, warm this place up a bit.”

“And spend the evening praying that this place doesn’t burn down,” said John, his hands covering the slim ones at his waist.

“That old fireplace can take anything,” said Sherlock, “The sky is clear which means the temperature will drop rapidly, probably drag in a sea fret too. Perfect night for hunting banshee.”

John laughed as the arms around him loosened, turning as Sherlock stepped back from him, “I had enough chasing spectral hounds around Dartmoor with you, I am not hunting banshee.”

Sherlock laughed, snagging a towel from the pile they had brought in from the car and rubbing it over his hair, despite half the water already having dripped onto the shoulders of his shirt, “As an alternative shall we see if we can persuade my dear employer to feed us?”

“Sounds like a plan. I might persuade her to let me borrow one of the bathrooms upstairs,” said John, “I’ve not got your resilience for the cold.”

“You’ve seen the drafty old pile I was dragged up in, resilience to cold has been inbred,” said Sherlock, tossing aside the towel and holding out a hand.

John took it, amazed still at how natural the response came to him. He looked down at their linked fingers, his skin tone stark against the paleness of Sherlock’s, before he brought them to his lips and pressing a kiss to the younger man’s knuckles.

“I swear every single person in the room is going to know what’s happened between us today,” he said.

Sherlock smiled, “I think Aoife already had an idea if the wink she tipped at me when I collected lunch from her was anything to go on,” he said before he frowned, “I don’t know how the others will react to the news though.”

John mimicked his expression, “Good point,” he said, “Not that I would ever be ashamed of you but you have to live here. I guess I’ll just have to try and keep my hands off you. It’ll be a tough call though.”

Sherlock took his other hand, bringing them both to his chest and pressing them down. The gesture was touching and John stepped a little closer to better enjoy it but he paused as he saw the blood that stained the now ratty bandage on Sherlock’s hand. He sighed and stepped back, taking hold of Sherlock’s damaged hand and lighting several more candles.

“I’d forgotten about this,” he said, unwrapping the old bandage, to reveal the deep scratch that was bleeding again in places, “Its not as bad as it looked at least and hopefully the salt water did more good than harm.”

“I see our change in circumstance isn’t going to stop you clucking over me then?” said Sherlock though he acquiesced easily enough as John sat him down.

“Not a chance,” said John heading to his bag and fetching a small medical kit, “If anything I’ll be worse.”

“Am I allowed to kiss you to shut you up if you start nannying me?”

John leant over and kissed his lips, pulling back with a smile, “Oh I insist,” he said, crouching down before the chair and beginning to treat his hand. 

It barely took him moments to rebind Sherlock’s hand but he held onto it afterwards, stroking the track of the thin blue veins that stood out against the pale white skin. The younger man reached down with his free hand, running his fingers through John’s sandy hair.

“How is this so natural John?” he said quietly, “I never could have imagined this, not just with you but with anyone, to be so content in my emotions. I thought caring for someone was a weakness but I feel so much stronger now.”

John loosed his hand, smoothing his own over Sherlock’s slim thighs and pushing himself up to kiss him, “I think that’s probably the greatest compliment you could ever pay me.”

“I won’t tell you I think you’re gorgeous then,” said Sherlock, getting to his feet with a playful wink and offering him his hand, “Dinner?”

John pulled himself up, “Sounds like a plan,” he said, keeping hold of his hand as they headed towards the door.

They stepped out into the road, the evening still clear but a chill had been dragged in from the sea and John pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself as Sherlock loosed his hand to better close his own.

“There’ll definitely be a fret tonight,” said the detective, “Filthy things. We’ll have to keep an eye out from the pub, I’ve found my way back in a mist before but it wasn’t pleasant. I couldn’t see more than an inch in front of me.”

John shuddered, “I don’t like the thought of that,” he said, “This place is dark enough as it is. I’ve lived in London too long to adjust to country life. I couldn’t sleep for the first few nights at your mum’s, it was far too quiet.”

Sherlock laughed, “I can’t remember it being all that quiet but usually Mycroft and I were having a row over something so it wasn’t all that peaceful.”

“Oh I got told about all that by both Evangeline and Catterick,” said John, “He’s a fabulous bloke, knows his football.”

“He had you down the pub didn’t he?”

John nodded, “Anytime he had an evening off,” he said, “We even got your mum down there once.”

Sherlock shuddered, “Did she insist on calling it soccer?”

“And only knew who Manchester United were because a friend of hers liked David Beckham,” he said, “It was worse than the time I tried to watch a match with you.”

Sherlock pulled a look of mock offence, “Oh I’m so glad I’ve invested my emotions in you dear doctor.”

John shoved him towards the door of the bar as they stepped onto the grass that led to it, “I have Stamford to watch football with,” he said, “I much prefer chasing around London with you.”

Sherlock turned in the doorway, just before he stepped inside, his voice lowered to a whisper, “Then I think you and I are perfect for one another.”

They stepped into the bar, the set up as John had found it on his first night in Ireland, populated only by the locals but he was glad he now recognised most of the faces. Aoife waved them over quickly, her smile brightening as she took in the pair of them and John knew she had seen right through them without either of them uttering a word. The theory was better proved as she hugged them both tightly before she hurried them through to the back room. 

“You came to your senses then Doctor Watson?” she said.

John shook his head with a smile, “Has Sherlock been giving you lessons?”

“Aoife has an intuition that’s very rare in much of the rest of humanity,” said Sherlock, already rifling through the set up of the kitchen in the search of anything new.

“You definitely must have come to your senses, he’s in a good mood,” said Aoife, “I’m pleased for the both of you, you’ll do well together. Now then, seeing as you’re here I take it you want food.”

“Please,” said John, as Sherlock disappeared behind a copy of the Sunday paper.

“Two plates keeping warm in the oven for you,” said Aoife, “Sherlock will show you where. I’ll set you up with some drinks, come through when you’re ready.”

“Oven’s over there,” said Sherlock with a nod to his left that was barely perceptible over the paper.

John shook his head, “You’ve not changed a bit,” he said fondly as he fetched the plates, impressed by the full spread Aoife had saved for them, “Come on then or have I lost you to that for a while.”

Sherlock folded the paper with a sigh, “Nothing of interest,” he said meeting his friend’s gaze, “What I’d give for a case, for us to be able to charge around London again, or chase spectral dogs around Dartmoor.”

“Soon,” said John, “As soon as I’m home I’ll go to Mycroft and we’ll get you home and clear your name. Now come on, food, good company, a drink or two and home before the sea fret comes in, can that be enough for you tonight?”

Sherlock got to his feet, taking one of the plates from John’s hand before pressing his free one to the small of his back and steering him back into the bar. 

The small gesture seemed to become common place throughout the evening, an almost secretive gesture that communicated their affections without bringing either of them under the scrutiny of anyone else in the bar. As soon as they had finished eating they were brought into the general conversation of the room, Sherlock happily translating for the older members of the group who didn’t speak English. As Sherlock’s attention was taken by Eoin and talk turned to the day’s work he had planned, John took the chance to head upstairs and use one of Aoife’s bathrooms; the landlady gladly providing him with a pile of towels. 

By the time he returned to the bar he found Sherlock in the midst of another impromptu concert, the violin having been replaced by a pattern Bodhran that he handled as well as he did any other instrument. John settled himself in one of the armchairs by the fire and listened to the music, glad when he heard his friend’s voice join the raucous chorus. The mood began to change though as people began looking to the windows, a faint mist beginning to hang on the frame. The music stopped and Sherlock was soon handing him his jacket, the pair of them saying their goodnights before Sherlock steered him towards the door.

The mist was already heavy when they stepped outside, the air chilled and damp. The almost smoke-like tendrils seemed to roll from the direction of the sea, carrying with it an almost eerie light as it gradually ate up the village around them. It was Sherlock’s mood though that disturbed John the most, his pace at once frantic and hesitant, pausing every few feet to allow John to come alongside him only to speed up again as he began walking once more. John followed Sherlock back to the cottage, wondering what had caught the detective’s senses so much that he seemed like a coiled spring. He reached out as they reached the outskirts of the village and took Sherlock’s hand in his own, feeling the tension in the long digits of his fingers.

“What’s the matter?” he said, pulling on the hand in an attempt to slow his friend’s pace, “Sherlock?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, turning back to him, the mist of the sea fret casting him in unnatural tones, “Its cold, we need to get the fire lit at the cottage if we want any warmth tonight.”

John relented, keeping pace with the taller man as the mist continued to close in around them. As they reached the cottage and Sherlock fought the lock, John turned back to the road they had come from, the only indication of the village being the odd specks of light that floated amongst the thick mist. He knew it was a very natural phenomenon but that didn’t prevent him from pressing a little closer against the man before him, longing for the familiarity of their make shift home. Finally Sherlock pushed the door open with a force that had them tumbling inside, the mist seeping passed the doorframe until John slammed it shut. Sherlock seemed to swing into action the moment the door closed, his pace frantic as he lit several candles before he caught up various discarded rags John had assumed simply made up the detritus of the cottage and began stuffing them into the various crannies around the small windows and the door. 

John shuddered and went to light the fire, feeling the cold, damp chill that seemed to have settled in the room. He was glad when the fire caught, the wood dry enough to spark quickly into a good flame and the area around the hearth began to warm instantly. John sat down on his bed and held out his hands to the blaze.

“Come and warm up Sherlock,” he said.

He looked up when there was no answer to see him stood by the door, pale eyes trained on him even as he clutched at the rags in his hand.

“Sherlock?”

“I need to finish the house,” he said, disappearing behind the curtain, “Why don’t you make some tea. The kettle is by the hearth, takes a while to boil but if you put the tea bags in first then it tastes less like copper. I don’t think there’s any milk but it never comes out of that thing all that strong. There’s sugar somewhere, might need to hunt for it. Mugs should be clean though. I’ll just be a minute.”

John peered quizzically at the curtain Sherlock had disappeared behind, hearing the unnatural joviality in his tone that instantly sparked his worry. He cast his mind back over the night in the bar, trying to pin point the moment the strange manic behaviour had come over his friend. He smiled as he remembered Aoife’s parting words and less than subtle wink, he’d been too busy laughing to notice Sherlock’s reaction at the time but he remembered the brief tightening of Sherlock’s fingers where they had been resting on his back, herding him to the door.

The curtain was swept aside once more and Sherlock stepped back into the room, clearly searching for something else to occupy him. John got to his feet and crossed to him, taking his hands before he could pull away. He raised a hand to his cheek once he was stilled, turning his gaze to his and seeing the worry in the pale eyes.

“Nothing needs to happen tonight,” said John softly, “Not a thing. All I’ll ask for is a kiss goodnight.”

Sherlock looked mortified at his words and John wondered if he had misread him entirely as he dropped his head.

“Its not that I don’t want to, it’s just…”

“You never have before,” said John.

“How did you…?”

John coaxed his head to his shoulder, stroking the wild black curls, “Observation,” he said, grateful to hear the huff of laughter at his shoulder, “Various biting remarks Mycroft used to throw at you, the fact that in the eighteen months I spent living with you the only time you showed any attraction to anyone was Irene Adler and even then it wasn’t for the reason most people noticed her.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“To someone who cares maybe,” said John, “And I care enough that I’ll let you dictate how fast this goes. There’s no obligation and don’t start fretting that I’m going to look elsewhere either. I want you and I’ll wait for you.”

“Were all your girlfriends this much trouble?” said Sherlock, his tone light but John could here the lingering insecurity.

“I wouldn’t know, in recent history at least,” said John honestly, “Only a few got to the point where this was even an option and then…well… when did you notice me stay out overnight after a date?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before he straightened, meeting John’s eyes, “You never did, I didn’t realise but I can’t remember you ever coming back any later than two,” he said, “You mean you never…why?”

“I’m thinking now that it might have been the fact that I had something better to come home to,” he said, smiling as he saw the blush tint the white cheeks before him.

He met Sherlock’s lips with his own, coaxing him from the sudden shyness that Aoife’s words had brought out in him but he didn’t push too hard, knowing that the nerves that Sherlock had come to the cottage with were still lingering close to the surface. With a final soft peck he pulled back, encouraged when Sherlock made the smallest noise of protest. 

“I’m going to get changed,” said John, “Why don’t you look into that tea you were whittering about earlier?”

Sherlock nodded, kissing him once more before he released the grip he still had on John’s hand. John retrieved his bag and headed behind the curtain, changing quickly into a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, clothes that he had often lounged around the house in and would be familiar. He had always made the assumption that Sherlock had little to no sexual experience but to have it confirmed both terrified and flattered him. To be the only one to ever know Sherlock in that way felt wonderfully profound but he also knew how much of a responsibility it would be, how much it would take to teach the deeply controlled man that it was alright to give way to nothing but sensation. He was glad of the cottage’s freezing water as his mind began to wander onto all that Sherlock’s education could entail, anchoring him back to reality despite the train of thought his body wanted to take. 

Routine complete he pushed aside the curtain and stepped back into the main room, the chill still lingering despite the fire that Sherlock was trying to coax more life from. John sat down on the mattress next to him, bussing a soft kiss to the side of his head when he’d settled.

“Let me do that,” he said, snagging a blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders against the cold, “The water’s still freezing in there.”

“I’m used to it,” said Sherlock, handing him the fire iron and getting to his feet.

John turned his attention to the fire, shivering in the chill of the cottage until it won out and he climbed beneath the blankets of his bed, propping his head on one hand as the other used the iron to finally get a decent flame going. The kettle was nowhere near the hearth and he was sure didn’t even contain any water so he took it that the tea was abandoned, the thought of getting up to even fill the kettle unappealing. He heard the swish of the curtain and saw Sherlock chuck his clothes with little ceremony onto the nearby chair, extinguishing the candles before he got into his own bed, bunching himself up into the covers.

“I hate sea frets,” he muttered, “Always so bloody cold. Are you alright?”

John rolled onto his side to face him, “I’ll live,” he said, with a shudder, “I can’t believe how quickly the temperature dropped though, its worse than the desert.”

“Damn thing looks set to last the night,” said Sherlock, casting a displeased eye to the window, “Hopefully there won’t be any idiots out on the mountains, the rescue helicopter always makes such a row.”

The silence that descended was awkward at best, both of them leaving much unspoken but John was surprised when Sherlock was the first to break it.

“I know it’s probably considered a mixed signal,” he said, “But we’d both be warmer if we were closer together.”

John smiled, deciding that any sort of teasing response would be cruel and instead shucking off his own blankets and shifting onto Sherlock’s bed as the other man moved over for him. By the time he had settled though there was a gulf of mattress between them, Sherlock far to the other edge, away from the fire.

“There’s about a foot more between us than there was previously,” said John, reaching for him, “Come here.”

Sherlock moved over to him, their positions echoing their time on the beach as the younger man rested his head on John’s shoulder, his hand coming to rest over his heart. The blankets had shifted down with the movement and John moved to pull them back up but paused as he saw the dark marks peeking out from beneath the sleeve of Sherlock’s t-shirt. He pushed up the cuff, wondering at the bruises before he realised that they all but exactly matched the span of his own fingers. A sick feeling settled in his stomach as he traced them gently with a finger.

“I did that to you,” he said, a statement rather than a question, “Today on the beach.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I bruise easily, problem of being pale is they stand out a little more,” he said, lifting himself up enough to see John’s face, “They don’t hurt at all.”

“Still I…”

Any further words were cut short as Sherlock swooped down to kiss him; plush, full lips chasing away John’s argument. The touch grew in confidence, deepening as Sherlock pressed closer on instinct alone. John knew that he should pull back but the warm weight that settled against him would not be ignored and he deftly flipped them, pinning Sherlock’s hands to the mattress as he dropped his lips to the expanse of creamy neck the low collar of his t-shirt exposed. He felt the younger man shudder beneath him as John let his teeth delicately score against his pulse, feeling it heighten from the touch alone. He raised his head, looking down out the man laid out beneath him and his heart stuttered in his chest. The normally pale eyes were darkened with desire, heavy lidded and pleading as the long lashes painted shadows over the sharp swoop of his cheeks. Black hair splayed on the pillow in abandonment, wilder than John had ever seen it and he released one slim wrist to knot his fingers in it as he leant down to whisper in the delicate shell of Sherlock’s ear.

“You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” he said, “God why did I never see this?”

Had he asked the question any other time he would have been met with a witty retort but Sherlock merely whimpered as John nipped at his jawbone, his freed hand clutching first at the blankets and then at the back of John’s shirt, seeking purchase. John felt the desperation in his grasp and paused, realisation hitting him that no one had ever touched Sherlock in such a way before. He pressed a softer kiss against his neck and then his lips, easing the press of his weight.

“Are you alright?” said John, stroking a dark curl off his friend’s forehead.

Sherlock nodded, managing a weak but radiant smile, “No one’s ever made me feel the way you do,” he said, “I’ve never…”

“Sshh,” hushed John quietly, knowing how difficult it was for his friend to vocalise his feelings, “I know how new this is for you.”

“Its terrifying,” said Sherlock, his hand smoothing his hand over John’s back, “But so wonderful.”

John smiled, “We’re just getting started,” he said, kissing him softly, “But I’m worried to take you any further tonight, I don’t want you to regret a moment.”

Sherlock drew his hand from John’s back and onto his cheek, caressing softly, “I will never regret a single thing with you,” he said, “Not a moment.”

“Then let me slow this down now,” said John, slipping to his side but keeping his hand on Sherlock’s hip, “I want the first time I make love with you to be perfect and we have the rest of our lives, there’s no rush.”

“The rest of our lives,” said Sherlock with a reverence that made John’s heart stutter.

John rolled onto his back, tugging Sherlock’s head onto his shoulder and pressing a kiss amongst the black curls. The position was so natural for them and John felt Sherlock relax fully against him, his fingers tracing a repetitive pattern over his heart. John carded his fingers through the younger man’s hair in the same rhythm, loving the silky slide of the strands as Sherlock’s head grew heavier on his shoulder.

“Sleep,” said John, the warmth of their embrace lulling him also.

“I’m so glad you’re here Mo Chuisle,” said Sherlock around a yawn.

“Me too,” said John, as they both finally succumbed to sleep.


	9. In The Mists

The shrill ringing that echoed through the haze of sleep was highly unwelcome and John refused to acknowledge it, pressing closer to the warm body in his arms with a groan. The ringing finally ceased and John smiled, lips caressing the back of a long pale neck and he felt a hand settle over his.

“John you need to let me get up.”

John shook his head, “Its too early, go back to sleep,” he muttered sleepily, “Bloody alarm.”

“You can sleep as long as you like but I have to get to the farm, Eoin’s expecting me.”

John blinked open his eyes, trying to make anything out in the all but non-existent glow from the dying fire, the windows still dark, “What time is it?”

“Four,” said Sherlock, long fingers caressing John’s where they rested beneath his t-shirt.

John made a disgusted noise before pulling Sherlock tighter back against him, “Eoin can’t have you.”

Sherlock chuckled softly at his petulance, “Wasn’t it I who used to complain about your job taking you away from me Mo Chuisle?” he said, “If I work today I can spoil you this week.”

“I don’t want you to spoil me,” said John, “I don’t want you to even move.”

“If I don’t move then I can’t kiss you,” said Sherlock, moving as soon as the arms around him loosened.

John smiled as they finally came face to face, immediately tightening his arms around Sherlock’s waist once more. The kiss when it came was soft and lazy, far calmer than the night before but John could still fell the affection in it. John slipped his hands once more beneath Sherlock’s shirt, tracing his waist and the line of his spine, sparking the younger man’s inner copycat. He felt rather than saw Sherlock’s smile as he released the kiss, his mouth continuing to brush his as he spoke.

“Are you trying to distract me Doctor Watson?”

“Mmm-hmm,” murmured John, pulling him closer, “Is it working?”

“Most definitely,” said Sherlock, “But I need to go John.”

John moaned but released him, rolling onto his back as he watched Sherlock hoist himself out of bed, stealing a blanket to protect against the cold, “This is an utterly ungodly hour.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh as he tossed another log onto the fire, prodding it into life, “Farm life starts early and it’s a two mile walk from here,” he said heading to the window and cursing at what he saw, “The sea fret is still hanging over the place, I can’t even see to the well.”

John sat up, bunching the covers around him, “Should you be walking two miles in it then?”

“I know the route well and I’ve done it before in a fret,” said Sherlock, “Can’t see how we’ll get much work done though, mist this thick will probably last the day.”

“Do you want me to come and help?”

Sherlock shook his head, discarding his blanket and his t-shirt before he ducked behind the curtain, “At the farm or in here?”

John laughed, “I meant at the farm but I’m more than happy to come in there with you,” he said, hearing the water begin to run and then Sherlock’s creative curse, “Then again perhaps I’ll give in there a miss.”

“I will never ever moan about London again,” said Sherlock over the noise of the spray, “Hot water on demand and bloody sea frets a long distant memory.”

“I thought you’d like all the mist,” said John, lying back against the pillows, “Its very Jack the Ripper.”

“Only without the interest of a serial killer,” said Sherlock.

John quirked a smile at the remark, snuggling back into the warmth and the scent of the bed they’d shared. He knew he had dozed off when he felt a hand caress his hip and he all but jumped at the touch.

“Sorry I dropped off on you,” he said, rolling over to see Sherlock fully dressed, once more a world away from the smart, tailored suits he had once known and now removed from the jeans he was coming to love.

The detective wore a pair of hardy black trousers, tucked into heavy-duty work boots, the outfit completed by a thick fleece under a Barbour several sizes too large. If jeans had been a shock to the system then work clothes threw John for six and his heart constricted once more at how much his friend had to endure. The thought must have registered on his face as Sherlock smiled teasingly.

“Going off me now I’ve been reduced to the working classes?” he said.

“Never,” said John, rolling onto his back and stroking the backs of his fingers over the younger man’s cheek, “But I hate that you’re having to go through this.”

“I’d have gone to hell and back to keep you safe, Ireland isn’t so bad,” said Sherlock, stilling any protest with a kiss, “I’ll be as quick as I can but I want you to promise me something. Don’t leave the cottage without either me or Aoife coming to get you while the fret is still thick. I know you think you know the road but you miss one step you’ll be in a ditch or worse and it could take hours to find you.”

“I’ve navigated my way around IEDs,” said John, seeing the stubborn look in his friend’s eyes, “But if it will placate you I’ll stay put until it lifts. Don’t be too long.”

“I promise,” said Sherlock, kissing him before he got to his feet, heading to the door, “Get some more sleep Mo Chuisle, I’ll be back as soon as I can be.”

John watched him leave, hugging the blankets to him as the cold air blew in from the open door. Instinct insisted he followed but he remained where he was, knowing he would be little to no help but wanting to be at his side all the same. He shuddered as he thought of Sherlock working out in a cold field for the day, the tremble deepening at the image of some accident befalling him in the mists. He pushed aside the thoughts, dragging Sherlock’s pillow over to him and burying his face in it, letting the lingering scent lull him back to sleep.

It had been a good few hours later when he had woken, the sound of rain pattering against the windows in juxtaposition to the trill of his mobile. He picked up the device from it place on the floor, smiling at the text he found.

‘Be bloody glad you aren’t here, miserable weather. SH’

John sent back a particularly teasing response, making sure to reference the warmth of their bed before he climbed out of it; glad the fire was far more pronounced and managing to give some heat to the room. He braved the bathroom and was pleased to find the water warm, chasing away the aches from sleeping far to close to the floor. He couldn’t feel that much animosity towards the nest of blankets and pillows though, not when the bed had contained the warm and responsive form of Sherlock Holmes. John had never before thought he would have felt such desire for a man but Sherlock had always managed to prove him wrong and he was more than glad he had succeeded in that particular arena. While he knew he would need to follow the detective’s pace in progressing their relationship he was more than certain that there was much he could teach him along the way while getting the chance to watch so many firsts for the younger man. As John’s imagination began to take hold he was glad he was alone, Sherlock’s image in his mind as he responded to his own body’s demands.

He’d barely finished dressing when he heard a knock at the door and picked his way over the now made bed with his shoes in his hand, pulling it open to find Aoife huddled beneath an umbrella.

“Sherlock text,” she said, “Said you might be hungry and that I was to rescue you from this drafty old place.”

“Starving. Come in a minute,” said John, pulling on his shoes and buttoning up his coat before he snuffed out the candles and tempered the fire, “Is the mist still bad?”

“Dreadful,” said Aoife, rubbing her hands together and shaking water onto the stone floor, “It gets in my bones. I hate it. I could swing for Eoin making Sherlock work in this.”

“I did try to persuade him not to go but he was adamant,” said John.

“That’s because he thinks he’s indestructible but he’s as vulnerable to pneumonia as the best of us,” said Aoife, “Best bring him some dry clothes with you in case he comes back to the bar first, he’ll be soaked to the bone by now.”

John frowned at her words but did as instructed, collecting up the least rumpled pieces of Sherlock’s attire and bundling them up into a nearby plastic bag for want of anything better. Aoife offered him her arm and he took it, huddling in close beneath the umbrella as they left the cottage. The mist still hung heavily on the village, lights on in every window in an attempt to dispel the gloom. John couldn’t help but think of the horror stories he and his sister used to terrify each other with in their youth, mists and spectres being a common theme for them. Aoife picked her way carefully along the road and John realised how much truth there was in Sherlock’s words as everything seemed to lose its perspective in the gloom. 

He had never been gladder to see the bar and was soon huddled up beside the fire with a warm cup of tea and a plate of toast, the grainy old telly set on a Gaelic channel babbling away in the corner. 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t get any channels other than that one,” said Aoife as she joined him, “I’ve got a video player in the back though if you want to watch anything else.”

“I’m fine,” said John, putting his feet up on a ratty old stool, “Besides, I’ve not had much of a chance to have a conversation with you.”

Aoife smiled over the rim of her cup, “Are we going to draw each other out?” she said, “If so you must be prepared for me to ask anything, including for details about last night.”

“Aoife!” cried John, laughing with her as she broke into a fit of musical giggles, looking far younger in the moment than he had seen her, “You’re incorrigible.”

“I promise I shan’t pry,” she said, “But I am pleased for the both of you. You’ve been the one thing that’s kept Sherlock going all these months, even in his darkest time it’s been your name that pulled him out. It’s been a wonder to see so much hope.”

John cast his eyes into the depths of his cup, feeling humbled by the faith Aoife’s words had imparted, “If I had only known sooner I would have been here,” he said, “It was every wish I ever made when I found him here alive. When he died…when I thought he’d died I thought I’d never be truly happy again.”

“We all pass through life looking for proof that there’s something after, something watching over us,” said Aoife, “Something protected Sherlock from all that could have gone against him, gave him my Molly to help and then brought him to me. Him coming to me is proof enough that someone looks out for me too.”

“You sound sad,” said John, setting his cup down and letting his head rest in his hand.

“Not sad,” said Aoife, “Just…old memories, these mists always get to me.”

“You can tell me if you like,” said John.

Aoife smiled sadly, “Do you mind?”

John shook his head, taking the teapot Aoife had set between them and pouring them both a fresh cup, before he sat back in his chair. Aoife reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a battered leather wallet, taking out a picture clearly taken in the early eighties if the clothes were anything to go on.

“James Malone,” she said pointing to the tall, fair-haired man in the picture, “Jimmy to all of us who knew him.”

“And the little boy?” said John, already guessing the identity of the black haired ten year old in the picture.

“Connor,” said Aoife, a sad fondness John had grown so accustomed to hearing in Evangeline’s American tones, “My lad.”

“When did they die?” said John, needing none of his friend’s deductive skills to know that father and son were no longer on the mortal plane.

“Three hours after that picture was taken,” said Aoife, “Jimmy was a fisherman, had been since he were a lad. He was a strapping lad, full five years older than me and I thought he was such a man. Him and his da would come in here of an evening when my folks were working the bar and I’d watch him from the kitchen, thinking he was the finest of them all. We started courting when I was fifteen and I married him four days after I turned sixteen. A year later there was the babe. They were my fine lads, my fine, strong lads but it didn’t stop the sea. Day that was taken was clear as you like, bright with summer. Connor was off school and every day when the weather was fine he’d go out with his da after the fish. He was so happy out there and I’d waved them off as I always had done and worked the bar when they’d gone. I didn’t see the mists but the old priest noticed it from the window and had run out to the church. Back then there were no mobile phones, not that had come here anyway. That old church bell rang out to warn everyone and it was only when I heard it that I remembered that Jimmy and Connor were still out. Took them three days to find the boat and ten before Jimmy’s body washed up in the Dingle. They never found Connor.”

“I’m sorry,” said John, reaching across for her hand.

Aoife managed a weak smile, “It was a long time ago now,” she said, “But these passed months I’ve been thinking of them. First moment I saw Sherlock I thought of them. I’d often wondered if my Connor had lived, been washed up somewhere without his memories and been raised by someone else. I always wanted him happy. Then came Sherlock, same age give or take that my lad would have been and all wild black curls. He’s not my Connor of course but sometimes when I look at him I think he could have been my lad and I want him as happy as I ever wanted him to be. He’s the strangest of creatures, some of the older residents think he’s faerie born, but I’ve come to love him.”

John smiled, “Faerie born?” he said, “I suppose that’s one way to describe him.”

“I’m sure there have been other terms,” said Aoife.

“Mmm, ones that I never liked mostly,” said John, “They were brutal in the papers when they turned on him. The last time I was face to face with him at Bart’s I called him a machine, not my proudest of moments especially when it hit me in the middle of his funeral.”

“Don’t think of that, you got him back,” said Aoife, “And now you can call him whatever you please, call him love and darling and the wonderful words he deserves. Don’t leave anything unsaid. I’d give all the world to hold my lad one more time, mo chuisle.”

John’s heart stuttered as he recognised the term, seeing the mist in Aoife’s eyes as she said it, “Mo chuisle, what does it mean?” he said, “Sherlock has called me it a few times now.”

Aoife smiled, “Then I’ll let him tell you the translation,” she said, returning the ragged photograph to her pocket, “Now then, seeing as I have one of my fine, strapping adopted lads with me would you help me move a few things about it here so I can get these floors clean for once?”

“Seeing as its you Aoife,” said John, getting to his feet.

He peered out the window as Aoife headed to the back in search of cleaning supplies, looking towards the general direction Sherlock had given to Eoin’s farm but he could see no further than a foot or so from the window. He touched two fingers to the glass, seeing the vapour trail it left.

“Come back safely,” he said to thin air before he turned his attention back to the bar.

Once the floors were clean Aoife persuaded John into helping her in the kitchen, their conversation far easier and lighter than in the bar, mainly involving their shared trials with the absent consulting detective. John hadn’t even flinched the first time Aoife had referred to Sherlock as his boyfriend but he found the word somewhat inadequate even so, another label he wasn’t planning on applying to them. Soon the savoury smell of their cooking was filtering around the room, hand raised pork pies cooking in the large oven that reminded John of Mrs Lovett though thankfully minus the human filling. John stuck to the easier part of making the pastry when several attempts to follow Aoife’s skill failed, finding the repetitive work therapeutic and reminding him how long it had been since he had enjoyed cooking for anyone.

A small electronic timer kept time, Aoife removing the pies from the oven each time it beeped and refilling it with more to bake. John was up to his elbows in flour as the timer rang out again, barely turning to see Aoife bundling her hands into the oven mitts before she cranked open the door. John turned swiftly however as he heard her shriek and the clatter of baking tray hitting the floor. 

“Aoife!”

“Fecking oven,” she cursed, shoving the door shut.

“What on earth happened?” said John, stopping her as she angrily chucked the ruined pies with force into the bin.

“The thing back drafts sometimes, never gives any warning,” she said, “I’ll have to shut it off for half the day now.”

“Have you had anyone look at it?”

“No, much as Sherlock keeps on at me,” she said, “Old thing will probably be condemned.”

John frowned, “Aoife you could have been hurt,” he said, rinsing off his hands before wrapping the bowl with the pastry and putting it in the fridge, “We’ve been at this for hours, we’ve earned a break, doctor’s orders.”

“Do doctor’s orders run to whiskey?”

“Most definitely,” said John as they headed back into the bar, both of them peering out of the windows into the gloom beyond, “Ever wonder if the rest of the world has disappeared when these things come over.”

“Sometimes,” said Aoife, “We had one hit and last nearly a week when Sherlock first arrived, thought the lad was going to go stark raving mad from it. You can see how the legends came into being though.”

“Just a little, it’s so bleak,” said John, seating himself by a window and peering into the mists, watching the odd movement of the lights from the cottages.

Aoife had just set a glass in front of him as he heard the sound of horses hooves, wondering who would be mad enough to be riding in such foul weather. He finally saw the two heavy horses loom out of the twisting fog, huge beasts of burden lumbering towards the bar. It took him a moment to recognise the riders but when he did he couldn’t help but smile.

“Aoife, he’s home!” he called as he headed to the door, opening it and heading out to the pair, Eoin regarding him quizzically from the back of his own horse.

“You look disgustingly warm and dry,” groused Sherlock, swinging himself out of the saddle and onto his feet, his clothes caked in mud.

“I did offer to come and help,” he said, “You looked very lord of the manor up there.”

Sherlock looked down at his soaked clothes with a frown, “I doubt there’s many-a manor that would let me in,” he said, “I’ve been knee deep in a peat bog most of today.”

John wrinkled his nose, “Nice,” he said, taking hold of one of the heavy oil-skin sacks his friend took off the horses saddle, its weight testament to the choice of heavy horses, “What on earth is in here?”

“Firewood for Aoife,” said Sherlock, his voice raising as the woman in question came out of the bar, handing Eoin a wrapped parcel with a smile, “She has me doing her fetching and carrying for her.”

Aoife’s response was lost in translation but John was sure it was not the politest of comments as Sherlock lugged the second sack onto his back with a grunt of effort. John realised it was nearly twice the size of the one he held and he wondered at the weight that his friend had just subjected his back to. Eoin called the detective over, the two sharing quiet words before Eoin handed him a few folded notes that Sherlock worked into his trouser pocket. With a few final words of farewell, the care-worn farmer took hold of the reins of Sherlock’s horse and headed back into the mists, soon disappearing from view. Sherlock turned to the main door but Aoife held up a hand to stop him.

“Oh no my lad, not like that you don’t,” she said, “I’ve scrubbed them floors within an inch of their life today and I’m damned if you’re going to drag mud all over it. You can get those wet things off out here or you can go in through the cellar. John brought you some clothes, you’ll go upstairs and take a bath and come down when you’re not going to leave your mark everywhere.”

Sherlock groaned but headed to the cellar door, opening it and gingerly heading down the rickety steps, the heavy sack still on his back. John followed him as Aoife returned through the main door, worried by his friend’s somewhat tentative gait. By the time John hit the bottom of the steps and pulled the hatch shut, Sherlock was already unloading his sack onto the woodpile in the corner. 

“Don’t I even get a kiss hello?” he said, setting his own sack on the floor.

Sherlock threw him a quizzical look, “Have you seen the state I’m in?”

John laughed, “I still think you’re the most gorgeous creature on the planet.”

“Gorgeous creature from the black lagoon?” said Sherlock even as he laid a small kiss to John’s lips, “How was your day?”

“Busy, Aoife kept me working,” said John, “Not as hard as you though. It can’t believe you’ve been out in that weather all day.”

“I can,” said Sherlock, “I can feel it in my bones. A hot bath would be the most heavenly thing right now.”

John reached up to help him pull off the sodden Barbour, hanging it beside the barrels on an old protruding nail that looked as though it had once served a purpose, “Well Aoife asked me to put your things in one of bedrooms upstairs, no need for you to head back to the cottage.”

Sherlock leaned back against one of the large barrels, pulling up one foot and taking off the heavy boot, “I’d have to crawl there if not, I’m done in,” he said as he moved to take off the other boot but he straightened with a yelp.

“Sherlock?” said John, taking hold of his arm as he seemed a heart beat from falling.

“Its nothing,” said the detective, “A twinge, I’ve done too much today.”

“Stay there,” said John, kneeling at his feet and working the boot off as gently as he could, the saturated socks adding to his unease, “You need warming up.”

Sherlock took his outstretched hand, John leading him out of the cellar and up the stairs to the bedrooms. The doctor didn’t pause at the bedroom door but led Sherlock straight through to the bathroom, turning on the taps and letting the steamy water begin to fill the tub. Part of him wanted nothing more than to help the detective disrobe but they were still too new and he stepped back towards the door.

“I’ll wait in the bedroom for you,” he said, “Take as long as you need but I want you to keep talking to me so I know you haven’t fallen asleep and drowned yourself.”

Sherlock nodded, “Leave the door open then, I’ve been shouting across fields all day and would rather I didn’t have to now,” he said, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the money Eoin had given him, “Look after that for me, I’ll forget it and it’ll end up being washed.”

John frowned at the notes in his hand, “Thirty euros?” he said, “You worked from before dawn until now for thirty euros?”

“There’s not much money in farming and Eoin couldn’t afford anymore,” said Sherlock, “Don’t look like that John. Its enough, a day’s pay for a day’s work.”

“Sherlock this is no more than twenty-five pounds, you’ve spent more on cab fares and you’d earn ten times this for three hours work in London sometimes,” said John, “This was not worth the state you arrived here in.”

“Yes it was,” said Sherlock, “Because its enough when I add it to the fortune money from the other day and some more I have put aside for me to take us into town this week.”

John shook his head, “Sherlock I could have paid for anything like that, you didn’t have to do this for me.”

“You’re forgetting a certain level of pride John,” said the younger man, “I have managed myself since I was eighteen years old, not well at times but I did it, I have never been beholden to a soul if I can help it and I will not be beholden to you.”

John wanted to protest but saw the agony in the pale eyes and relented, “You really are the greatest contradiction to the image you project on the world,” he said, crossing the room to his side once more and kissing him, “You never cease to amaze me.”

He was rewarded by Sherlock’s smile, the one he had never seen turned on anyone but him and had always warmed his heart. He finally left him to himself, perching on the bed as they spoke through the open door. John couldn’t help but wish he was the other side of the door but he knew the time would come as they continued to develop their relationship. Sherlock reappeared half an hour later, looking clean and far fresher but still tired, wrapped in several towels. John opened his arms as he lay back on the bed, Sherlock happily joining him and curling around him easily despite his height.

“How long until you need to be downstairs?” said John, his lips pressed to the still wet hair.

Sherlock took hold of John’s arm, turning it until he could see his watch, “Half an hour if I want to eat,” said Sherlock, “Or an hour if I want to stay here.”

John laughed, “Half an hour, you’re going to eat something after the day you’ve had,” he said.

Sherlock turned his face up to kiss him, a smile on his lips as he did so, “I said I’d kiss you each time you nannied me.”

“I’ll be making you get an early night too,” said John, earning himself another kiss, “And wash behind your ears.”

Conversation was not much use after the final assertion and John took the first part of Sherlock’s shift when they got downstairs with five minutes to spare to allow the detective to eat. When John handed back over to his friend he noticed how stiffly he moved, his hand often moving unbidden to his lower back.

John’s concern for his friend only grew as the evening progressed. Where Aoife had been more than happy to work the bar when there were so few in, as the sea fret cleared more and more people came to the pub and she was forced to call on Sherlock for assistance. John made the assumption from everyone’s familiarity that they were all locals but there were many faces he hadn’t seen before, including several rather loud children. It was logical that so many would venture to a meeting point after the mist, John himself had begun to feel deeply cut off from the world when it had lingered for so long. 

As the chill dissipated though his concern grew, each move Sherlock made growing slower and more controlled. He voiced his concern but was waved off even though he recognised the pain in Sherlock’s eyes however, when he saw Sherlock flinch as he bent to retrieve a glass from beneath the bar he headed to him. Sherlock protested as John settled him in a chair with instructions not to move but stayed put all the same as John took on his role behind the bar. It wasn’t long before the families were returning to their homes, over excited and over tired children in their wake, and the demand eased. 

Aoife had soon ushered them both out of the door, demanding Sherlock rest even as the younger man protested. The pretence only lasted a few metres from the bar before John was forced to wrap an arm around his friend’s waist just to keep him upright, every other step forcing a gasp of pain from him. 

“All this for thirty euros,” said John, “Sweetheart nothing was worth you suffering like this.”

“It’ll pass,” said Sherlock, trying to suppress a soft keen of pain as he dropped into a step a little heavily, “It always does.”

“Well until it does you’re not moving from bed, do you understand?” said John as they finally reached the cottage and he worked the creaking lock open.

“Yes Doctor Watson,” said Sherlock in mock exasperation, the fondness in his tone undisguised, “Will you stay in it with me?”

John smiled as he helped him over the threshold, “How else can I be sure you’ll stay put?” he said, guiding them to the chair and sitting Sherlock down, “Stay there while I get the fire going, then I want to take a proper look at you.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but said nothing, his grin widening as John felt a blush creep onto his cheeks at the unintended interpretation. He busied himself with the fire and lighting the candles before he returned to his friend’s side, seeing Sherlock’s eyes already closed from the fatigue of the day. He was loathed to rouse him but he knew it would do him little good to sleep in the chair. He reached out and stroked the soft black curls, smiling at the half petulant, half contented noise he received in response.

“I’ll let you sleep in a minute,” he said as pale eyes opened to regard him, “I need you to stand up for me now though.”

Sherlock got to his feet with more difficulty than was comforting, steadying himself against John before he was upright. John helped him out of his jacket before taking hold of the base of the t-shirt he wore, tugging it off as gently as he could and feeling Sherlock flinch despite his care. The doctor in him took over as he gently moved the man in front of him, testing his mobility and cataloguing the most tender points. He sat down in the chair and made Sherlock turn his back to him as his thumbs traced the track of his spine, pausing occasionally to stroke the smooth skin beneath his palm whenever he felt Sherlock stiffen in agony.

“I can’t feel any displacement and your mobility is restricted but not so much to cause me too much concern,” said John, rubbing his thumbs in small circles against the tense muscles at Sherlock’s waist, “I’m hoping its just muscular. A couple of days rest and you’ll be back on your feet.”

Sherlock sighed, “A couple of days is no good, Aoife needs me,” he said.

“Aoife can use me if she has to,” said John, getting to his feet and stepping round to meet his friend’s gaze, “You need to take care of yourself Sherlock, god knows how long you’ll have to stay out here yet and I won’t be on hand all the time.”

“Don’t say that?” said Sherlock, grasping John’s hand and raising it to his lips, “I don’t want to think about you leaving.”

John smiled, his free hand tracing a path from Sherlock’s cheek onto the side of his neck, fingers caressing the tumble of hair at the back, “I’ll come back, every weekend if I can swing it, I won’t be able to keep away,” he said, raising up to press a kiss against his lips, “Let’s get you to bed, you’re dead on your feet.”

Sherlock offered no argument and they were both soon bedded down in the darkened cottage, the fire casting its familiar eerie glow over them. John smiled as Sherlock rolled into him and placed his head on his shoulder but it was soon replaced by a frown as the younger man flinched at the position and pulled away with a yelp of pain. John propped himself on an elbow, his free hand rubbing soothing patterns at his friend’s hip as he tried to find a comfortable way to lie on the makeshift bed.

“Its never been this bad before,” said Sherlock, the pain evident on his face.

“The cold today wouldn’t have helped,” said John, “Luckily though, I spent long enough having to improvise when I was out in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, “There’s sense in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

John leaned over and kissed him, “Lie back and let me look after you,” he said, getting out of bed and filling the large copper kettle before setting it over the hearth. 

He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him as he moved about the room, collecting towels and digging out a clean ceramic bowl from the meagre resources scattered around the room. John knelt back on the bed, laying out one of the larger towels before he coaxed Sherlock onto it, rolling him onto his stomach.

“What are you doing?” said Sherlock as John pushed up his t-shirt, easing it off to expose his back.

John pressed a kiss to the newly revealed skin, “Which one of us is meant to have the exceptional powers of deduction?” he said, earning himself a tired laugh, “Your back hurts, I’m worried about you therefore I am going to try and make you feel better.”

“I think I like the thought of having my own personal physician,” said Sherlock, the smirk hidden by the pillow he buried his face in still apparent in his voice.

John ran his hands down the expanse of pale back, “Well I want you healed and healthy,” he said, gently kneading the taut muscles, “I have plans for this body.”

John bit back a laugh as even in the dim light he saw the faintest hint of colour flush the back of Sherlock’s neck at his words, leaning down to press a kiss against it. He sat back up and headed to the hearth, retrieving the kettle and decanting the water within into the bowl, testing it against his own skin for warmth before he soaked one of the smaller towels in it. He wrung out the moisture over the fire, hearing it hiss and spit as it hit the flames. He saw Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye, the detective shifting painfully onto his side to see what he was doing.

“I’ve already been wet and cold once today John,” he said.

“Trust me,” said the doctor as he returned to the bed, towel in hand, “Lay back down. Tell me if this is too hot.”

Sherlock instinctively stiffened even before anything touched but let out a low groan as John pressed the warmth of the towel against his abused muscles, “You’re a miracle worker,” he murmured.

John smiled, “You approve then?” he said, “The heat should help with some of the tension and then I’ll see what I can do.”

He kept the gentle pressure against Sherlock’s back until he felt the heat begin to drain from the towel and tossed it aside, smiling at the moan of protest he received. 

“Don’t be petulant or you won’t get the rest,” said John, placing his hands at the base of the lumbar curve and beginning to work the muscle, “I could count every single vertebrae in your back you’re so slim.”

Sherlock stretched languidly beneath his touch, “I should hope you could name them too Doctor Watson,” he said, before he yelped as John hit a tighter knot, “You’re meant to be making me feel better.”

“I’m sorry,” said John, bending to place a kiss against the abused spot.

He knew he’d made a mistake the second he felt the silky, warm skin beneath his lips, his body wanting nothing more than to taste while his mind screamed the trust being put into him. He sat back up but his body was not so easily ignored and his hands moved in more possessive circles against the soft, pale skin. Sherlock’s response did little to help, tiny needful moans echoing up every time John made even the slightest of movements, breathy exhalations of his name punctuating each harder press of his fingers. It was the soft, Gaelic nickname though that broke his resolve and his hands left Sherlock’s back, planting either side of his shoulders as John pressed a kiss beneath the thick curls at the back of his neck.

“Cervical curve,” he said pressing a kiss to each raised bump, “Seven vertebrae, mainly making up your beautiful long neck.”

“John?” said Sherlock with a shudder as the doctor gave into temptation and lapped his tongue at the base of the curve.

“You asked me to name them,” said John his lips veering off his path to track along one prominent shoulder blade before he bent to Sherlock’s ear, “Let me?”

Sherlock nodded, shuddering as John returned his lips to the curve of his spine. He counted down each of the twelve thoracic vertebrae, pausing now and then to pay further attention to the patches that elicited more pronounced response. He moved onto the lumbar spine, paying more attention and care to the abused muscles as he brought his hands into play once more. He paused as he counted off the last vertebrae, his lips meeting both skin and the material of Sherlock’s low-slung waistband. His fingers traced the elastic, dipping just beneath and hearing the hitch in the breathing of the man beneath him. He tugged them down enough to allow him to trace his kisses to the point where his back met the curve of his behind.

“Sacrum,” he said with a reverence as he pressed his lips to the tempting dip, “Sherlock you’re perfect.”

“John,” came the pleading tone, as Sherlock raised a hand, searching for him, “Please.”

“Please what?” said John, nibbling at the soft skin at his waist as he took hold of Sherlock’s questing hand, “Tell me what you want?”

“You, I want to see you,” said Sherlock, tugging on his hand as best he could.

John relented, slipping to his side and pulling the unresisting detective into his arms. The bed negated their height difference and John slipped his hands down to Sherlock’s hips, using the pressure to tilt them against his own. He could do nothing to hold back the groan as Sherlock’s erection pressed against his, their clothes doing nothing to dull the sensation. He felt the younger man shudder and freeze, pale eyes widening as they met John’s.

John released the pressure of his hands but didn’t pull back, coaxing Sherlock into a kiss as he knotted his fingers into his hair, petting the dark strands, “Relax love,” he said, “Let go, I’m with you.”

He felt the moment Sherlock’s innate curiosity won out, pressing their bodies together once more before his hands sought the base of John’s shirt, tugging at it with an unfamiliar imprecision.

“Off,” he said, between kisses, “John I need to touch you.”

John tore off his own shirt, not caring where it landed before he guided the younger man onto his back, his lips finding the long white throat once more. Tentative hands mapped his chest, fingers used to caressing a violin turning their skill to an act of sensation rather than expertise. The touch remained almost chaste however and John felt an ache inside him that longed for fulfilment but he knew he would have to guide his young lover in its ministrations.

He pulled back from his kisses, stilling all movement as he caught Sherlock’s gaze, the crystalline eyes looking almost black as his pupils chased away the pale irises. He brought up a hand and gently traced a line from the tip of his sharp cheekbone to his chin, pressing a soft, loving kiss to the full lips.

“Trust me,” said John, letting his hand dip lower, tracing down his neck and chest, pausing briefly to feel the flutter of his heart beat.

Sherlock arched into the touch as John’s fingers mapped the flat stomach, only pausing as he met the barrier of his clothes. John saw the tinge of fear in his eyes but also desire, the latter winning as Sherlock gave the smallest of nods. John let his hand slip beneath the thin material, immediately meeting warm, hard flesh and watching Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed in pleasure as he wrapped his fingers around his burgeoning need, stroking gently. John knew it should feel alien to touch another man in such a way but the sensations coursing through him were too amazing to deny himself for old beliefs. Sherlock whimpered desperately beneath him, hands fisting the sheets beneath him.

“Sherlock I need to see you,” said John, “I want to see all of you.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open as John slowed his hand, fear and desire once more warring in the pale orbs. John kissed him softly once again, soothing him as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his trousers and eased them down. John saw his own hands trembling as he discarded the material before he ran his hands up the long, pale legs, feeling the strength in them. His eyes continued further, taking in the sight of the long, luminous body laid out before him.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, hands stroking the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs before exploring further, committing every moan and whimper his lover made to memory as he touched him. 

He wrapped his hand once more around the younger man’s straining erection, the touch causing Sherlock to arch with a yell that tailed off to a choked sigh as John smeared the already leaking head with his thumb. John felt his own desires pushing at him, wanting to stroke harder and faster, to bend down and taste the rosy flushed skin but Sherlock’s voice soon grounded him.

“John…I…please,” he said, eyes wide and barely focused as he struggled for words, “Let me?”

John wasn’t sure the human heart was meant to race so fast but it did all the same as Sherlock forced himself up from the bed, his hands seeking to rid John of his remaining clothes. They soon join the other discarded items, both of them laid bare before one another bodies glistening with sweat and flushed with arousal. John felt his skin prick as Sherlock’s eyes took in every inch of him; inquisitive fingers soon following, their confidence increasing with every stroke. He strained for every ounce of his self control, begging his body not to spend like some inexperienced teenager as long pale fingers wrapped sensuously around his cock, stroking gently, the pressure maddeningly light. He reached down, closing his hand around his lover’s inexperienced touch and showing him what he needed. He groaned as Sherlock mimicked the touches he had felt, thumb sweeping the head, smearing pre-cum onto the rest of his fingers and making his grip slick. 

John wrestled once more for control of himself, stilling Sherlock’s hand and kissing him, tongue pressing passed the full lips and tasting the familiar sweetness beyond.

“Lie back,” he said, easing the younger man down on his side, before following him, their bodies pressed tightly together.

John shifted just enough that their erections brushed together, barely registering Sherlock’s moan as it was drowned out by his own. He took hold of Sherlock’s hand guiding it back to where their bodies met in an electric arc of desire, encouraging him to touch them both as he did the same. Any higher thoughts fled them both as they gave over to sensation, moans muffled by kisses as slick skin and hard bodies duelled for dominance and release. John felt the moment his lover stiffened, his lithe body taut as a bowstring as his hand stuttered. Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath, stilling entirely for the briefest moment before he moaned long and loud, John’s name tumbling from his lips as he came, hot spurts covering them both in his seed. The sound of his name and the sensation of Sherlock’s release coating his fingers was too much for John and he followed him to oblivion, his vision whiting out as he caught his lover in one final kiss, swallowing Sherlock’s own lingering moans.

John wasn’t sure how much time had passed; all he knew was the sensation of Sherlock’s warm breath against his neck coming in sharp gasps as the younger man trembled against him. Finding some control over his own limbs, certain that rational thought had deserted him forever, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shaking form, cradling him close as he stroked the sweat slicked black curls.

“Alright?” he said, his voice hoarse and breathless still.

Sherlock shuddered and shook his head before pausing and nodding against John’s shoulder, a small half sob, half laugh wrung from his lips, “I don’t know,” he said, “That was… it all stopped John, everything stopped.”

John couldn’t keep the smile from his face at the words, “That’s probably the best compliment you could ever give anyone,” he said, tilting the younger man’s face to his and kissing him, “Sherlock that was amazing.”

“I never felt anything like that, like you,” said Sherlock, a tear breaking loose and coursing down his cheek, “To think I nearly lost this chance.”

John kissed him, pulling him close, “Don’t think of that, not now,” he said, “We have this now, together, now and for the rest of our lives. I promise.”

Sherlock was silent but his arms tightened around John, the pair of them content in the moment they had shared and the unspoken words they both knew it was too soon to utter. They both dozed but John knew they would regret it in the morning if the fell asleep in the tangle of bed sheets they were nestled in. He pressed one more kiss to the soft, swollen lips, carding his fingers through the dark curls to rouse Sherlock.

The detective made a petulant noise but shifted all the same. John smiled down at the languid, sated form, using the discarded towels to clean up the mess they’d made between them. Deciding that anything further was far too much effort and would take him away from the warmth of Sherlock’s embrace for too long, John returned to the bed. Sherlock immediately curled back into his arms as John settled the covers over them, his hand slipping into its familiar place over his heart.

“The rest of our lives,” he murmured softly.

“I promise,” said John, as Sherlock grew heavier against him, soon following him into a peaceful sleep.


	10. Cill Airne

John was getting used to being kissed awake while long fingers either wound their way into his hair or tracked the lines of his throat. He had woken on a clear Tuesday morning to the sensation, his mind immediately conjuring images of the night before when he had watched Sherlock come undone so beautifully in his arms. The memory must have shown on his face even before his eyes had opened as the kiss deepened into something that screamed of the emotion between them. It had been the most wonderful way to start the day in John’s opinion and more than made up for anything else that could be thrown at him. 

They had headed to the pub as soon as a decent hour was reached but from the walk alone John knew Sherlock would be neither use nor ornament to Aoife as his back still pained him. As soon as they had arrived John had taken on his work while he set Sherlock up in one of the bar’s comfiest chairs with orders not to move any further than it took to tap away on his laptop. Sherlock had proceeded to give as much trouble as he could, alternating between a familiar chorus of boredom to proclaiming the edge of death when he moved too suddenly. John had borne all that he could throw at him, his patience cooling the familiar Holmesian fire but when it finally proved too much the web cam joined the arsenal and Sherlock was left face to face with his mother and no choice but to behave for an hour.

John had joined the conversation towards the end, the happiness on Evangeline’s face easing the pain of the months they had both spent in mourning but the look he saw did nothing to compare to the more radiant smile her son’s actions brought to her face. When John had joined them he had perched on the arm of the chair so he could fit the camera angle, one arm slung over the back for balance. The move had brought him close to Sherlock but could be interpreted as nothing more than friendship and necessity. As Evangeline had asked how they were both faring in Ireland though John’s answer had been cut short when two petal warm lips pressed to his cheek.

“We’re both doing just fine Mummy,” was Sherlock’s response as words failed the doctor, “Now for heaven’s sake don’t squeal too loudly, you’ll upset the neighbours ten acres over.”

John had relaxed when Evangeline had repressed an shout but had still grinned far too widely to be considered decent, no doubt already running through the hat department of Harrods in her head in preparation. With enthusiastic blessings and promises to call soon they had parted company and only when the screen went dark did Sherlock consider asking John if he was concerned by Evangeline knowing. John had kissed him in response, finding the question deeply endearing in its lateness and pulling a pleased sigh from Aoife across the bar, neither of them having realised she was even in the room. 

The day passed quickly and the evening as slowly as they wanted it to, John once more beginning with the intention of soothing his lover’s body only for the pair of them to bring each other to bliss as they had the night before. It was with those memories fresh in his mind that John was woken the following morning, long fingers moving with a new found confidence over his body as lips brushed his with an unhurried gentleness. 

“Finally he wakes,” said Sherlock his lips trailing a path down John’s neck, “I was being to think you were under a spell.”

John laughed, refusing to open his eyes as the sunlight filtered through the windows, instead allowing his hands to find the detective’s elusive form and pausing when he felt unfamiliar fabric beneath his hands. He opened his eyes, rubbing them as Sherlock sat back on his heels. John felt his heart stutter in his chest as he took in the sight of the detective, an image he hadn’t seen in months before him, long lithe form poured into a tailored black suit.

“Hello,” he said quietly, unwilling to dispel the dream.

“Hello,” said Sherlock, “What’s that look for?”

“Just…you,” said John, sitting up and running a hand up the smooth sleeve of Sherlock’s suit jacket, “Just feels like the first time I’ve seen you in months.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “I think you’ve more than seen me for the passed few nights Mo Chuisle,” he said.

“And God don’t I know it,” said John with a smile, “What’s all this in aid of?”

“Well I have a few things I need to look into at the library in the city,” said Sherlock, “A couple of cases I think I can link to Moriarty so I need as much data as I can get. I’ve spoken to Aoife and she’s released me for today and tonight so I can get some work done.”

John forced a smile as he heard the familiar cool and calculating voice of his friend, the detective firmly back where he had been coming to know the man underneath. John felt something stutter inside and he thought it might have been his heart, reality reasserting itself and reminding him that whatever Sherlock had been forced to become in his exile, when presented with a case it was the focus of his world. 

“Good…that’s good,” said John not quite sure who the words were directed to, “If I can be of any help…”

Sherlock frowned, “Well maybe, it would be better than talking to myself, those conversations get tedious,” he said, “Would also help with the fact that I fully intend to find a nice, private hotel room where I can take my gorgeous new boyfriend and enjoy exploring these wonderful new sensations he’s taken to waking in me.”

His tone was so deadpanned and bored that John was forced to take a moment to recognise the words that were actually being said. The moment the meaning dawned on him he heard the familiar deep laugh and looked up to see Sherlock’s eyes dancing with mirth.

“John Watson, while I won’t promise that a case won’t take my attention from you now and then when we get back to normality, I’m hardly going to waste the precious days I have with you now,” said Sherlock raising John’s hand to his lips, “I do need to do some work but you always helped me to see things more clearly and once its done you and I are going to enjoy some time away from the village.”

“Then how can I resist?” said John, allowing himself to be pulled closer to the younger man, warm lips meeting his in a touch that could easily have become something more if he hadn’t have mustered his restraint, “I’d better get up otherwise we won’t be going anywhere.”

“That’s rather a tempting alternative,” said Sherlock, his lips settling on John’s good shoulder through his t-shirt, all but purring as a hand came up to fuss his hair, “But I have a few places I want to show you.”

“Really?” said John, allowing a weight to settle into the word.

He looked down and couldn’t help but laugh as he saw the colour that took Sherlock’s cheeks. He kissed the rise of one cheekbone, smiling at the flutter the act still brought to his heart. He would have been content to stay where they were all day but he would rather release the man in his arms than have him pull away when the lure of any sort of adventure called him. With one final kiss John released the embrace, easing out of bed and towards the makeshift bathroom.

He found the water in the shower pleasantly warm for once and he indulged for a little longer than usual, letting his mind wander onto the days that had passed since he arrived in Ireland. He had arrived still believing his best friend dead and now found himself in a relationship he had never expected but would not trade for the world. He loved the shyness that still took Sherlock, the normally confident detective so new to the emotions and John knew he would find more and more pleasure being the one to educate him.

He finally left the warmth of the shower’s spray, dressing in the best clothes he had with him in an effort not to look too out of place next to his friend. He pushed aside the curtain, seeing Sherlock perched on the window ledge, laptop across his knees and his eyes trained on the screen. So intent on it was he that John had crossed the room and leant down to kiss him before he was even aware of his presence. John had barely met his lips when Sherlock startled, slamming the laptop shut and his cheeks flaming pink as he met John’s gaze.

“Sorry,” said John, pulling back at the sudden reaction, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t… I mean, you did but…” said Sherlock, pressing the back of his hand to his cheek, “I’m not used to all this.”

John leaned in and kissed him once more, “If you react like that I don’t think I ever want you to get used to it,” he said, running the back of his fingers against the smooth, flushed skin, “This is entirely too becoming on you.”

“So long as you’re the only one to see it,” said Sherlock, “I packed you some things, no point in taking more than one bag if we don’t need to.”

“How do we get there?” said John as Sherlock hopped down from the window ledge, adding the laptop to the duffle bag that lay stuffed on the chair.

“Your car,” said Sherlock, “If you don’t mind.”

“If the choice is that or the bike I’d prefer the car,” said John, “It’s a long way to Killarney from here and I would prefer to talk to you.”

Sherlock hitched the bag onto his shoulder and held out his hand, wiggling his long fingers until John took it. John let himself be led from the cottage, the village still sleepy around them as they headed to the car. John was almost reluctant to leave when they had settled, the village having proved a wonderful idle and the thought of heading back to any form of built up civilisation felt wrong. The lightest of touches against his hand communicated more than any words could and he knew his fears were understood, the pair of them facing the real world beyond.

John was glad that he had woken in a good humour and that, despite several mishaps, he had a fairly good memory of the roads that led into the town as Sherlock’s navigational skills left something to be desired. Their conversation was relaxed, reminiscing on old cases that had required them to travel anywhere; John enjoying the easy banter that hadn’t diminished either with Sherlock’s exile or the change in their relationship. When he commented on his thoughts he was rewarded with a warm smile from his companion but the words that followed did more to warm his soul.

“Just because we’re together doesn’t mean we can’t be friends,” said Sherlock indicating the required turning with little more than a regal wave of his hand, “I would give up everything else if I had to to keep your friendship John.”

John didn’t reply but he knew his expression said more than enough to the detective at his side, the younger man looking all the more relaxed as they finally began to see a semblance of civilisation around them. 

John was more than charmed as they finally reached the city, following the winding streets through the wooded mountain passes as Sherlock pointed out the pinnacles the made up the famed Ring. Raw beauty had always drawn John from a young age and he saw it in the rough hewn buildings that kept the edge of the town and all the way into the polished main streets that had lost nothing of their charm. They finally pulled up to park in a large car park by the cathedral; the sounds of the nearby convent choir barely audible even in the stillness. People milled here and there, going about their business with no interest in either of them. It felt a little odd to be around so many people who did not recognise them, towards the end of their time in London there had been few places they could go without being recognised. 

The anonymity was welcome as well as Sherlock reached for his hand without embarrassment, leading him into the town. John wanted to explore but he followed Sherlock to the library all the same, settling in as the detective set to his work. He had once found the moments when Sherlock got lost in his work boring but it was with a fondness that John watched now, Sherlock busying through the data on his laptop before heading to the library’s micro-film and the selection of international newspapers it held. He would occasionally ask John to fetch him something or run theories passed him, his focus absolute on the case at hand. Even though there was a familiarity to the situation John still felt the loss that was around them both, knowing that even after the research was done their would be nothing for them to chase.

John noticed the moment the loss truly settled on Sherlock, his eyes focused on the screen but unmoving as his shoulders slumped. John left his chair, the legs scraping a little loudly in the silent room but he paid the raised heads no heed as he placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss to the soft curls.

“Soon,” said John, “As soon as we’re home you can put that brilliant mind of yours to clearing your name. Just think of this as the ground work.”

“I don’t have the patience for it,” said Sherlock.

“You’ve had the patience for months already,” said John, “Just a little while longer.”

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, “If we can get me back.”

John smiled, “You’ve cured me of my limp, stunned nearly everyone we’ve met into silence and you’ve come back from the dead,” he said, “I think if anyone can complete a resurrection then its you. I won’t rest until you’re back home.”

Sherlock got to his feet, closing the computer with a reverence, “Its all here,” he said, “Everything we’ll need, everything to prove I’m innocent.”

John took his hand, providing the anchor he knew the younger man needed, “Not too innocent I hope,” he said, laughing as he saw the blush take Sherlock’s cheeks once more, “Come on, I’m buying you lunch, we passed a nice café on the way in.”

Sherlock frowned, “The whole point of this trip was me paying…”

“That was your intention, not mine,” said John, “I’m buying you lunch because its one of the rare occasions that I get to.”

He’d been prepared for a rebuff but instead long pale fingers slipped once more into his, the unspoken agreement another demonstration of their shifting dynamic. John took them both to the small tearoom, finding themselves surrounded by tourists but they still managed to stand out, Sherlock’s appearance never having gone without comment even when people didn’t know who he was. It had once made John jealous that he was all but invisible next to his friend but the knowledge that of all the people in the world he had been the one chosen to share his life made the looks all the more palatable, especially when Sherlock seemed as oblivious of them as he ever was. 

The comings and goings of the tourists provided ample entertainment for them both, Sherlock telling life stories at a glance and proving that his skills had if anything been heightened rather than dulled by misuse. Even as they laughed though John could see that it didn’t quite reached Sherlock’s eyes, the longing for his old life still lingering from the morning. He wanted nothing more than to pull a solution from thin air to present to him but he also feared what such a solution could bring, losing Sherlock’s attention in favour of a case not a thought John found entirely palatable.

For the first time in days an awkward silence fell over them and John wanted to end it but the words were difficult to find. He had about mustered something trivial to break the silence when he saw Sherlock get to his feet, pale hand extended for his.

“Come with me,” said the detective, ignoring John’s protest and laying the money for their meal on the table. 

John took his hand and allowed himself to be led from the café and into the busy streets, thronged with tourists. Sherlock navigated the paths with ease, taking them from the main street and finding his way down the narrower roads known only, John was sure, to the locals. Their detour was swift but Sherlock’s pace slowed as they stepped once more out onto the main road. 

The pub they approached was nearly as battered as Aoife’s in the village, paint chipping from the sign bearing the name of O’Caellaghs. John felt Sherlock’s hand tighten in his as he took them to the door that led to the hotel rather than the bar and he held on tighter in return as they stepped inside. A young woman sat behind the desk, twiddling her long dark hair around a finger as she flicked through a magazine but she looked up as the bell rung over the door, her smile brightening as she saw them.

“Well hello stranger,” she said, “You’ve not been by for weeks.”

“I’ve been working, busy as ever,” said Sherlock, “Have you got any rooms going spare?”

“Yours is ready and waiting,” said the girl before making a show of peering at his hand where it still held John’s, “I take it you won’t be needing two.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Just the one for tonight,” he said, taking the key she offered him before he signed the register, leaving several notes behind on it.

John took his place as he stepped away from the counter, feeling the heat in his cheeks at the receptionist’s dramatic wink. He picked up the pen to sign his own name, pausing as he saw the signature Sherlock had just put down. He frowned but swiftly covered it and signed his own name, handing back the pen before Sherlock took his hand once more.

“We’ll be in the bar for dinner Kathy,” said Sherlock, pushing open the interior door that led to a set of stairs.

“See you then,” she said, throwing another smile in John’s direction before she turned back to her magazine.

John waited until the door to the stairway had closed behind them before he pulled his friend to a halt, “Sherlock I know you need to hide who you are but if you’re going to use an alias at least use one that’s a little bit unlike your name.”

Sherlock tugged on his hand a little to keep them both moving, “And have people raise the alarm if I’m recognised?”

John felt his brow knot in confusion, “Sherringford Holmes?” he said, “Not quite Sherlock Holmes but close enough that anyone with half a brain would recognise it.”

“And anyone who had been looking at my family history for long enough would know that Sherlock Holmes has a brother called Sherringford who is quite legitimately allowed to wonder around as he pleases. By the time they ran any checks on a man entitled to be free I can be well away. Hidden in plain sight John, best way not to be noticed.”

John’s confusion only grew at his words, “Mycroft is called Sherringford?” he said, not needing to see Sherlock roll his eyes.

“No Sherringford is called Sherringford,” he said, “He’s my half brother by my father’s first marriage.”

“And I take it this until now elusive Sherringford is not given over to kidnapping your friends like another brother I know.”

Sherlock smiled back over his shoulder as he paused to open a door at the end of the hallway, “I wouldn’t know,” he said, “I haven’t seen him since I was six, he and Mummy didn’t get along and he went to live elsewhere with his mother. I remember that I liked him and I remember that Mycroft hated him but not a lot more than that. I don’t miss him.”

John was once more reminded of the very different upbringing his friend had had, at once able to speak so lovingly of some people and at other times showing such a lack of emotion even over an absent relative. He had so many questions he wanted to ask but he knew he did not need to as Sherlock spoke again.

“I did look for him, just before I went to university,” said the detective, leading them both into a neatly appointed room, light and noise spilling from the open window that led to the street, “I tracked him as far as Germany at one point but then I caught onto a murder in the local paper and, well, you know me well enough.”

John smiled, “I bet you were insufferable even then,” he said, “You haven’t tried to find him since?”

Sherlock shrugged as he tossed the small duffle bag onto the nearby chair, “If he wanted a relationship with Mycroft and I he’d have contacted us by now, he has Mummy’s address,” he said, sitting down on the bed, “I didn’t bring you up here to discuss family history anyway.”

John stepped forward, feeling two warm hands come to settle on his hips as he threaded his fingers into the soft dark curls, “I’m very glad to hear that,” he said, “I’ve grown used to our little idle, it was odd being somewhere so crowded with you.”

“Me too,” said Sherlock, “Besides, I didn’t like that way the waitress was looking at you.”

John let his fingers wander over one sharp cheekbone, “She was probably trying to work out how to get me out of the way and make a move on the gorgeous creature I had with me,” he said, leaning down so his lips could trace the path his fingers had just taken, “And before you come back with all the false modesty I won’t take any argument.”

Sherlock was silent but turned his head enough to capture John’s lips, the touch tentative for a brief second but increasing swiftly to something more confident. John let himself be tugged down onto the bed, using his hands to brace his fall as he settled over the man beneath him. Long pale fingers were already trying to find their way beneath his clothes and John wished they had thought to at least take off their jackets but he paid the thought little mind when Sherlock’s hands finally found his skin, caressing with a new found confidence. He drew back far enough to loose the button of Sherlock’s suit jacket before he went to work on his shirt, each button slipping easily until he had exposed the slim, pale canvas of his chest. 

He let his lips drop down the long neck before him, nipping lightly before he chased the patches of sunlight that littered the younger man’s chest, his lips lingering in places whenever a particularly plaintive moan rose from his lover. He found a particularly vulnerable point on Sherlock’s collarbone and was beginning the exploit it when he felt his phone begin to buzz impatiently between them in the pocket of his jeans. He ignored it, hoping whoever it was would go away but it had not gone unnoticed as Sherlock began to laugh beneath him.

“Well mine doesn’t do that,” he said, as John dropped his head to his shoulder with a groan.

“Don’t be smart, you know full well what it is,” said John, rolling off him and reaching into his pocket just as the phone gave up, “Its your brother.”

Sherlock groaned, “What does he want with you?”

“He’s always checking up on me these days,” said John, “Now he doesn’t have you to fuss over.”

The phone began to buzz once more, Mycroft’s name flashing on the screen.

“You’d better get that,” said Sherlock as John’s finger moved to cancel the call, “He’ll only put a trace on your phone if you don’t.”

John sighed in resignation, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s once more before he lay back on the bed and answered the call.

“Hello Mycroft,” he said, frowning as the phone was taken from his hand and set to speaker before Sherlock lay it between them.

“…tracked you as far as Kerry, John,” came Mycroft’s voice from the speaker, “Why are you in Ireland?”

“Holiday,” said John, feeling his heart tighten in pity as Sherlock lay down near the phone, listening to his brother’s voice, “I just needed to get away.”

“From what?” said Mycroft, “Nothing out of the ordinary has happened.”

“How can you ask me from what?” said John, reaching out to run his fingers through Sherlock’s dark hair, “I needed some space, to process everything that’s happened since… that day.”

Despite the fact that Sherlock was mere inches from him John still felt the stab of pain that accompanied the memory and was glad then the younger man shifted into his arms once more, nuzzling his neck softly as he brought the phone up to rest on John’s knee.

“Why now John and why so sudden?” said Mycroft, “I can find out you know.”

“Don’t pull that spy crap with me,” said John feeling a familiar prickle that often followed the elder Holmes’ assertions, “I had a bad day, I booked leave, I booked a ticket and I came here. End of. Don’t go snooping in anything else or I’ll set your mother on you.”

John felt Sherlock stiffen in an attempt to stifle a laugh, the threat of Evangeline amusing him all the more as the line remained silent for a moment.

“Speaking of Mummy,” said Mycroft after a pause, “She’s being rather out of character and sounded almost cheery on the phone this morning even when she told me she wasn’t coming to London. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”

“I can’t see how your mother sounding happy should mean there’s something wrong,” said John.

“She has been in mourning for months, has worn nothing but black and cries at the mention of my brother’s name,” said Mycroft, “Cheery is not a word I have commonly applied to her since Sherlock…”

“Mycroft?” said John, feeling the younger man still in his arms at the hitch in his brother’s voice.

“Forgive me,” said Mycroft, “Sometimes, its just…so many regrets.”

“Talk to him please,” whispered John desperately in Sherlock’s ear, careful that he could not be heard by the phone, “Please sweetheart, you’re both hurting here.”

Sherlock shook his head even as his fingers traced the shape of the phone as though he could reach his brother through it. John tightened his arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the messy black curls even as he turned his attention back to Mycroft.

“It will get better Mycroft,” he said, knowing how hollow it would sound to the man at the end of the line, “One day.”

“Maybe,” said Mycroft, “Well I must go. I’ll send a car when you’re back in London and we’ll talk more then.”

John smiled at the assumption, knowing that Mycroft would have his ID on alert for when he left Farranfore, “I’ll see you soon,” he said, “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” said Mycroft before the line clicked dead at the end.

John didn’t need to say a thing as he wrapped his arms around the man beside him, gently stroking his back as Sherlock pressed his face into his shoulder. He knew from his times with Mycroft after Sherlock’s supposed demise that despite their feud being quite genuine the Holmes brothers still loved one another dearly and Sherlock’s loss had affected Mycroft more than anyone could truly know. Lying beside the younger of the two now John saw the flip side of the relationship, Sherlock mourning the loss just as keenly.

“I can call him back,” said John, “Two minutes and he’d be scrambling a helicopter. We could have you home before nightfall.”

“And locked in a safe house by midnight,” said Sherlock against his shoulder, “I want to go home so much but I need this to be on my terms John, I can’t go back and live half a life. I want to work this out so I can go back and be who and what I am, not play act as someone else and have my whole life dictated to me. When I go home I want it to be to Baker Street, with you. I don’t want you to have a life of Mycroft’s limousines pulling you here, there and everywhere.”

“If it meant I got to be with you I’d endure anything, you know that,” said John, “But I would prefer you were home, in Baker Street, its not the same without you.”

“Then you understand?” said Sherlock, pushing up enough to be able to see John’s face.

“As much as I ever understand you,” said John with a smile, “I’ll follow where you lead but we should at least make some headway, decide where we’re going from here.”

“And that’s where we hit a snag,” said Sherlock sitting up fully against the headboard, “I have no idea where to start. I need to prove my innocence but to do that I need to be able to find the evidence that proves it.”

“Meaning you need to be back in England,” said John following his train of thought, “But if you’re back in England you’ll be arrested and that will make things all the harder.”

“Got it in one,” said Sherlock, “I can’t go to prison John, I’d never make bail and this…there’s no one other than you and me that I’d trust to do this.”

“You could tell me what to do,” said John, “I could bring you the evidence.”

“Brilliant as you are John this…I’m the only one who will be able to unravel what Moriarty wove. I know how he thinks,” said Sherlock taking his hand in an effort to take any sting from his words, “But I will need you at my side. You know that I work better with you.”

“A reflector of light I think you once said,” said John.

“And you make it worthwhile,” said Sherlock.

John smiled, “Well then, no time like the present and all that,” he said, climbing off the bed and retrieving Sherlock’s laptop from the bag they had brought, “Never go in to battle without some sort of plan of action and the sooner we start preparing, the sooner I get you home. I want to kiss you under the mistletoe in Mrs Hudson’s front room on Christmas morning.”

Sherlock laughed, “You’ll give her a heart attack.”

“Before she goes running to Mrs Thompson to brag that she’s got some too,” said John, “We’ll be the talk of her Bridge club.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow as John climbed up on the bed beside him, “You are meant to be persuading me that home is a good place to go.”

John smiled and leaned over, kissing him with a passion that still had the younger man stiffening in surprise before he gave himself up to it, “Have I convinced you?”

Sherlock shrugged with a feigned nonchalance, “Getting there,” he said, finding himself with an armful of laptop.

“Then we’d better start planning to get you back so I can convince you properly,” said John, the pair of them settling back against the headboard as Sherlock opened the computer.

They ended up planning for several hours, their scheme patchy at best but something for them to work from especially when John returned to England. In the end it was hunger that pulled them from the room, at least on John’s part as Sherlock seemed intent to stay working. John however had many new weapons in his arsenal of compelling his meal-skipping friend to the table and he didn’t fail to exploit one to a point where dinner was almost forgotten in a tangle of limbs. They finally tumbled down the stairs, the bar warm and inviting but John found himself missing the familiarity of Aoife’s. Sherlock seemed to sense his unease and led him to a more secluded corner away from the bustle of the tourists who had found their way in. 

Propped in a dark corner they shared the meal that the girl from the reception earlier brought them, even knowing their arrangement seeming not to stem the flow of the flirtatious remarks she threw at the both of them. Young and a little giggly John merely watched in amusement as her remarks to Sherlock fell on deaf ears but when she turned them to him John saw the detective’s face darken, a long pale hand coming to rest on John’s in a gesture so possessive the doctor was sure the room had dropped several degrees. It was only when the girl finally departed that John brought his other hand up to cover Sherlock’s, smoothing his fingers over the fine soft skin.

“Jealousy Mr Holmes?” he said, barely able to keep the mirth from his voice.

“I’m not jealous,” said Sherlock though he failed to meet John’s gaze.

“Oh no, then why did I fear for her safety the second she set your cutlery on the table?” said John, his fingers maintaining the soothing pattern they’d found, “Sherlock she was just playing.”

“She’s very pretty,” said Sherlock, “Young, dark hair, slim; all your girlfriends have looked like her.”

John fought the smile that twitched his lips at his words, “Clearly so do my boyfriends,” he said, smiling as grey eyes raised to meet his, “Young, dark hair, slim. I could just as easily be describing you except to that I would add beautiful, brilliant and somewhat insecure. You have no need to be jealous of another soul in the entire world, I’m with you now Sherlock and when I’m with someone I’m with them completely. I will never feel for someone else what I feel for you so if a waitress wants to harmlessly flirt when she knows full well whose bed I’ll be sharing then let her and laugh about it with me afterwards.”

Sherlock’s gaze was once more at the tabletop, “This is all so new to me,” he said quietly, “I still can’t quite believe it.”

“Then learn with me,” said John, “You’re the only man I’ve ever been with so this is new to me too. We don’t have to race ahead and we don’t have to follow convention, just be with me and what we have will grow from there. Why rush when I have every intention of growing old with you?”

“I wish I could reassure you that Holmes men age well but my father died when I was small and grandfather always looked ancient,” said Sherlock, “Perhaps I will claim my American blood and age as my mother has.”

“Well I see a lot of her in you, you definitely have her eyes,” said John, “We should call her soon, tell her to at least feign some grief otherwise Mycroft will work her out.”

Sherlock laughed, “Mycroft will probably assume she has a new beau,” he said, “Whenever Mummy showed any sign of happiness Mycroft would ruffle his feathers, I think its part of the reason she never remarried, My would never have accepted another man in her life.”

John felt a smile twitch his lips, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call your brother My before.”

Sherlock poked at the food before him but smiled all the same, “Well I’m feeling an odd moment of affection towards him, I’m sure it will pass.”

“Oh most definitely,” said John, before a sudden thought struck him, “You don’t think Mycroft will think I’m her new…beau.”

Sherlock smirked, looking up from beneath the fall of his fringe, “Well that would make things very awkward,” he said, “I don’t think I could, in all good conscience, call you daddy.”

John shuddered, “We’d better change the subject before you’re sleeping in that room by yourself tonight,” he said. 

Sherlock laughed but dropped the subject, their talk instead turning towards plans for his return. 

As the evening went on they shared several more drinks, neither of them paying any mind to the others in the room as they talked. It was only when John was returning from the bar with two tumblers of whiskey to see out the night when he noticed the man sat in a dark corner of the bar, his eyes trained on Sherlock with an expression that unnerved John no end. He hurried his pace through the gathered mix of tourists and locals, setting the glasses on the table before he slid his fingers beneath Sherlock’s chin, titling his face to his and pressing a possessive kiss against his lips.

Sherlock smiled as John released his, “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” said John, releasing he was displaying the same jealousy that Sherlock had felt when Kathy had been harmlessly flirting, “Aren’t I allowed to kiss you in public?”

“Oh I have no complaints,” said Sherlock, shifting his chair a little closer to John’s as the doctor took his seat once more, “You just felt rather insistent.”

John recognised the calculating look on Sherlock’s face before the detective’s gaze left his and roved the room. John knew the second that Sherlock noticed his audience but the detective merely tipped his glass towards the shadowy corner before he leant across the table and kissed John once more.

“Shall we retreat upstairs Mo Chuisle?” he said, “Genius may require an audience but you and I don’t. I don’t think he’s looking because he recognised me but let’s not trust to fate.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said John, throwing back the smooth malt before getting to his feet, feeling Sherlock’s hand come to rest on his back as he manoeuvred him through the crowds to the reception.

Sherlock exchanged John’s back for his hand when they were once again behind the door to the hotel and John led him up the stairs, the weight of the night hanging on them both despite their nights at the cottage. John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand as they reached the door before he released the younger man long enough to unlock the door. Sherlock was the first inside but he didn’t turn on any lights, the illumination from the streetlights outside offering enough illumination. John locked the door, tossing the key onto the dresser before he shrugged off his jacket and sent it in a similar direction.

“Take the rest off,” said Sherlock as he sat down on the bed.

“Only if you return the favour,” said John, his pulling his jumper over his head.

Sherlock had soon shucked off his jacket, shoes and socks but nothing else as he stood, crossing the room to John as the older man reached for the curtains.

“The only thing I couldn’t see before are your feet,” said John, frowning as Sherlock’s hands covered his and stopped him pulling the drapes.

“Leave them open,” said Sherlock, “I want to see you.”

John frowned, “We’ve never…its always much darker in the cottage.”

Sherlock’s hand reached up, brushing over John’s left shoulder, wrinkling the material of his shirt, “Do you think I will think less of you if I see this in the light?”

John turned his gaze away from the piercing grey eyes, “I can’t even stand to look at it,” he said, trying to pull away as Sherlock’s fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt and began undoing them.

The detective refused to given in to John’s movements and he stilled, keeping his gaze lowered as Sherlock finally opened the shirt, the cool air of the room hitting John’s exposed skin. Slightly calloused fingertips brushed without shame over the tight knot of skin that now showed the world where the bullet had entered his body, the neat lines either side the surgical scars that had saved his life.

“Don’t ever hate this scar John,” said Sherlock softly, “If this hadn’t have happened you’d have stayed in Afghanistan or been deployed elsewhere, you might not have been walking through the park mere hours after I’d told Mike I needed a flat mate. God knows where I would be now without this scar though I fear that I would have been adding to more of my own.”

John raised his gaze as Sherlock swiftly unbuttoned his own shirt, letting the material fluttered forgotten to the floor. He held out his arms, turned up to the light and the street lamp threw into stark relief the fine lines near the crease of either elbow.

“You’ve seen these before,” said Sherlock, “You know what I did to cause them and I know you hate them.”

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock stilled him, his hands moving to the fastening of his own trousers and letting them fall beside the shirt. He took John’s hand and brought it to his leg, guiding his fingers to his inner thigh and letting him trace the faint markings there.

“They’re not as visible,” he said quietly, “And you don’t really notice them unless you’re looking for them but they’re there. If a vein collapsed or I just couldn’t find one…I did this to myself John, for entirely selfish reasons. If anyone should hate a scar these are the ones to hate, not one that is testament to your bravery.”

John reached up, taking the younger man’s face in his hands, “I can’t ever hate a thing about you,” he said, “I mourn what you did to yourself but I’ll never hate a single mark on you, however it got there.”

“Then don’t hate a single mark that you have,” said Sherlock, “Because I never could Mo Chuisle.”

Words inadequate, John pulled Sherlock down to him, kissing him in a way he hoped conveyed just how much he valued the friendship and further that they had found together. Sherlock took his hands and tugged him back towards the bed, lying down as his legs hit the mattress and pulling John towards him. John resisted however, breaking the kiss and smiling as Sherlock’s eyes opened in surprise. John stroked the back of his fingers down the younger man’s cheek before he reached lower, removing the last scrap of Sherlock’s clothing and bearing him to his gaze. Seeing the younger man so aroused filled John with the confidence he need to embrace the light that came from the lamps outside and he quickly removed the last of his clothes without any shame.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened at the sight, long fingers reaching out to touch the newly revealed skin as John covered his body with his own. With warm smooth skin beneath his fingers and Sherlock’s moans muffled by their joined lips, John was lost in the sensation, his mind able to process little beyond the tangle of their limbs. He was shocked therefore when he felt himself shifted bodily, blinking open to find himself on his back amongst the pillows with Sherlock hovering over him. The subtle show of strength sent a warm shudder down John’s spine and he reached up to knot his fingers into the black curls and pull the younger man back to him. Sherlock resisted his touch, pale eyes raking over John as his long fingers traced the lines of his chest, spreading like white stars against the tanned skin. 

“My beautiful John,” he said softly, leaning down to softly brush his lips with his own, “Do you trust me?”

“Completely,” said John without hesitation, his heart fluttering in his chest as the word registered in the man above him, a slow soft smile making Sherlock look far younger.

Sherlock reached for another pillow, placing it beneath John’s head and propping him comfortably on the bed as he settled astride him. John gripped the younger man’s waist, his gaze falling to where their bodies met, twin arousals pressed close in an arc of sensation. He moaned as Sherlock leant forward, lips tracing a path from his neck and down to his chest, the movement separating the delicious point of contact. Sherlock’s attention was soon focussed on the site of John’s scar, tongue and lips caressing the skin that John had once so despised though the reasons were soon escaping him. 

Sherlock moved back to his lips briefly before he began a straight path down the doctor’s chest, hands caressing where his lips did not. John would later blame the fact that he was far to distracted by those lips to notice anything else or predict anything that could follow the fluttery patterns being drawn against his torso, he would also blame it for the keening, unabashed cry that was torn from him as the warm flat of Sherlock’s tongue ran over the head of his cock.

John’s eyes flew open, unaware he had closed them, and he looked down to see the concern on Sherlock’s face, realising how easily how easily his cry could be misinterpreted. He propped himself up, reaching a hand down to caress Sherlock’s fine pale cheek. He saw the moment the younger man realised how welcome his attentions were, a smirk that could only be described as wicked took Sherlock’s face and he kept his eyes locked with John’s even as he repeated the action.

John stifled the cry that bubbled up as Sherlock’s hot tongue met his hardened flesh once more but he fell back against the pillows, his breath heaving in his chest as the tongue was replaced by the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, suckling gently at the head. He resisted every urge that wanted him to thrust up into the warm, wet mouth, knowing that Sherlock was moving into unknown territory despite the pretence of confidence. Although he resisted the urge to move he couldn’t keep silent, his hand coming to rest on the silken black curls as he spoke.

“More,” he begged, “Sherlock, please don’t stop.”

As if emboldened by John’s voice, Sherlock slipped his mouth down his length, lips closing and tongue laving as he began to move. John raised his head briefly but fell back once more at the sight of the dark head bobbing between his legs. His fingers tightened in the curls and Sherlock moaned in response, his efforts intensifying and John felt his body tighten. 

John had never been on a hair trigger, even in his youth but the sight and sound of Sherlock in such ardent worship brought his passion to the fore but also tears to his eyes, still unbelieving the devotion being played out before him. 

“Sher…Sherlock,” he said, trying to vocalise a warning, “I’m…”

Sherlock ignored his words, bringing a hand up to stroke John’s cock as his mouth moved to suckling the sensitive head once more, his own soft moans in rhythm with the unconscious cant of John’s hips. With several firm strokes John felt the intense pleasure shoot down his spine and he cried out, spilling himself into the waiting mouth as Sherlock swallowed around him.

Even as John was recalling his own name Sherlock’s lips were tracing back up his body, finally meeting his lips and John moaned at the taste of himself on the full pink lips. John instinctively pressed up against the hardness that now rested against his thigh, Sherlock still unfulfilled even as John lay sated. John wrapped his arms around his young lover, rolling them until Sherlock lay on his back, dark hair haloed about him with his sharp cheekbones stained pink with arousal and exertion.

He felt the detective shudder in anticipation as John traced a finger along the length of his collarbone, pale eyes bright with want. John loved the look on his face but it came in second against to how Sherlock had looked completely undone when they had slept together in the cottage and John wanted to see it now in the glow of the street lamps. His lips followed his fingers but when he thought of slipping further down convention and old fears flew to the forefront of his mind.

He knew Sherlock saw his hesitation as one pale hand came up to caress his cheek.

“Touch me,” he said, softly, “Please Mo Chuisle.”

John kissed him as he slipped a hand between them, grasping the twitching, slick shaft and moving in such a way that had caused such plaintive and desperate cries from his lover before. Sherlock did not disappoint, head thrown back and pale eyes closed as he keened. John watched his face, seeing the bone deep pleasure reflected there but still he regretted his hesitation, longing to show Sherlock a similar devotion to what he had received. The thought came too late though as Sherlock stuttered, John’s name torn from his as he spilled between them.

“Beautiful,” said John, caressing Sherlock’s firm abdomen as the younger man came down from his orgasm.

Pale eyes finally fluttered open, swiftly followed by a soft sated smile, “Mmm, you are,” said Sherlock his voice only just audible, “Oh John.”

John hushed him with a kiss, the two of them losing themselves in the touch and growing lazier as the moments passed. John slipped reluctantly from the bed, fetching a towel from the bathroom and gently wiping his lover clean as he lay indolent amongst the pillows. John finally climbed back into the bed, dragging the covers over them as Sherlock curled into his arms, a smile playing on his features.

“Enjoy that did you,” said John, stroking his hair.

“I could ask the same of you,” he murmured against John’s shoulder, “My research paid off.”

“Research?” said John, the clinical term unnerving him.

“Mmm-hmm,” said Sherlock, rubbing his cheek against John’s shoulder, “This morning, when you came back into the room and startled me. I wasn’t looking at case notes.”

“No?” said John.

“The subject matter was a little more worldly,” said Sherlock, his voice confident though his cheeks grew pinker as he turned his face into John’s neck.

John laughed, “Only you sweetheart,” he said with a tired laugh, “Research.”

He heard Sherlock’s sleepy murmur of laughter as he tightened his embrace and John was sure he had never fallen asleep to a sweeter sound.


	11. Home

John was momentarily disoriented as he woke, the smells, sounds and look of the room registering as alien in his mind. The first shout, a strong Irish accent, from beneath the window though swiftly reminded him of his setting and he smiled to himself. His body slowly registered the arm that was slung loosely over his waist as soft, warm breaths moved the hair at the back of his neck. His body felt limp with the pleasure of the night before, a bone deep relaxation he was unsure if he had ever experienced in his life. His heart seemed to beat out a more rapid tattoo as his mind brought to the fore memories of the night past, Sherlock so intent and diligent in his devotions until tears pricked the doctor’s eyes at the remembrance of it.

He turned as gently as he could in Sherlock’s arms, careful not to wake him. It was such a rare treat to get to watch the younger man sleep that he had no desire to end it any time soon, settling himself comfortably against the pillows and sparing a single finger to brush an errant curl away from the pale forehead.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, glad when the sound failed to even put a hitch in the younger man’s breathing.

In sleep Sherlock’s as yet youthful face looked even younger, unlined and free of the scowl or look of derision he often wore. John smiled as he realised that he had seen less of those expressions anyway since arriving in Ireland, revelling in the smiles that had only ever been for him, smiles that he was beginning to wish he had noticed long before Moriarty had come back into their lives. John knew he could not turn back time but he could control the future and he knew he would be with Sherlock for as long as the younger man allowed him to be, never again left as alone as he had been even before his exile.

The urge to touch became too strong to resist and John reached out, tracing a finger over the smooth skin of Sherlock’s shoulder, bared from the blankets that covered them. The younger man stirred at the touch, petulantly clinging to the last vestiges of sleep before pale eyes fluttered open, a warm smile following lazily behind.

“Good morning,” came the sleepy purr, “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long,” said John, his voice low in an attempt to keep the soft atmosphere that surrounded them, “Long enough to know you snore.”

“Liar,” said Sherlock, shifting to press in closer, nuzzling the warm skin of John’s neck as he tugged their bodies flush to each other, a soft chuckle escaping him as John gasped at the sensation, “Seems I’m not the only thing waking up.”

“Seems an almost permanent state of affairs when I’m around you now,” said John, tracing a hand up Sherlock’s back as he responded to the slow cant of hips against his own, “The Great Temptation rather than the Great Detective.”

Sherlock laughed, “That was bad John, even for you.”

“Well give me a chance, it is first thing and there’s not a lot of blood getting to my brain right now,” said John, biting back a groan as long, clever fingers wrapped themselves around him without warning.

“I could restore your equilibrium if you like,” said Sherlock, lips already tracing a growingly familiar path along John’s collarbone.

It would have been so easy to give in there and then, the younger man’s ministrations so precise even with so little practice but John felt the slight pang of the night before once more and brought a hand up to stop the detective moving any further. He kissed away the frown that his actions brought to the pretty bowed lips, whispering against them.

“First rule of medicine my dear,” he said softly, “Ensure the most crucial parts required for survival are attended to. Your mind is the most brilliant gift you have, hence the logically and correct path to follow would to be to ensure that an equilibrium of blood flow is first achieved in you.”

John smiled at the bemused look on Sherlock’s face, his normally sharp skills dulled as John’s hand mimicked the action he had previously received.

“I don’t…”

“My turn,” said John, pressing a swift kiss to his lover’s lips before he threw back the covers of the bed, baring the long pale body to his gaze, “Bloody hell.”

Sherlock blushed and John smiled at how far down it stretched, deciding the best course of action was to trace it with lips and tongue until Sherlock was writhing amid the sheets. John looked up from his ministrations, waiting for Sherlock to meet his gaze before he slipped lower once more, seeing the younger man’s eyes widen in surprise and smiling as he heard the breathy gasp before he set to his task.

“Oh my god,” muttered Sherlock, as he threaded his fingers into the soft blond hair, before he fell back against the pillows as John’s lips gave up on the skin of his hip for something far more sensitive, “John.”

The reluctance John had felt the night before fled the moment he felt Sherlock filling his mouth, the soft skin stretched taut over the steel of his erection. The scent of the younger man’s skin amazed him, the notes he knew well but more concentrated, overwhelming him in warmth and want. He felt the long fingers tighten in his hair, encouraging his ministrations as he began to move, knowing his technique probably left a lot to be desired despite Sherlock’s moans. He focused on what he knew had felt good to him, deep suction interspersed with fluttery licks and kisses, cataloguing the noises and movements each induced, satisfaction welling in his chest as Sherlock’s movements became all the more erratic. 

John felt Sherlock’s fingers tighten once more, as the younger man’s cries changed in pitch, trying to form words but failing. John could understand the warning for what it was but he persisted with abandon, wanting to bring the man who had given him so much to oblivion without holding anything back. Sherlock’s plaintive moans seemed hotwired to his own arousal and as the younger man keened helplessly, John reached down and took hold of his own painfully hard cock, stroking in time with the unconscious cant of Sherlock’s hips.

Finally he heard Sherlock’s breath catch as his body stiffened, several large gasps preceding a soul deep cry as he spilled his seed into John’s waiting mouth, the realisation of it triggering John’s orgasm onto the sheets below them. The taste was not at all unpleasant on John’s tongue though he was sure that his own pleasure heightened any favourable thoughts. He stroked Sherlock’s quivering thighs, noticing the shake in his own hands as he pressed a kiss to the sharp hipbone, smiling as he heard his lover sigh in pleasure. Long fingers carded gently through his hair before Sherlock coaxed him upwards, pulling John flush against him as he kissed him.

“You, John Watson, are a revelation,” said Sherlock, his fingers tracing the length of his spine as his breathing began to settle.

John shifted his weight until he was on his side beside Sherlock’s long, pale body, his hand finding a place over his heart, “I could say the same for you,” he said, “Your heart’s racing.”

Sherlock smiled, “It seems an almost permanent state of affairs when I’m around you,” he said, laughing as John did the same.

“Isn’t that what got us into this tangle this morning?” said John, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, “Not that I’m offering that up as a complaint mind you.”

“I should hope not,” said Sherlock, his tone sleepy before he sighed in resignation, “We can’t linger too long Mo Chuisle, it’s almost ten and Kathy will want us out.”

“I’ll pay for another night,” said John, “I don’t want to move and the thought of you putting a stitch of clothing on seems like the worst idea ever thought of by man.”

Sherlock had the decency to blush at the compliment even as his smile grew somewhat feral, “In bed with nothing on all day, whatever would we do?”

“Oh my darling I could recite a list that would go on for more than a day.”

Sherlock laughed, “But by the end of your recitation we would not have the time to indulge in any of your list.”

“Then how about after I tell you each one, we try it out,” said John, walking his fingers over the flat plane of his lover’s chest, “We could get through a fair few before we have to leave.”

Sherlock took the creeping hand, nibbling on the careworn fingers, “So tempting,” he said, “So very, very tempting.”

John smiled, shuddering as one of his fingers was slipped into the warm, wet heat of Sherlock’s plush lips, feeling the soft press of teeth and the warm touch of his tongue. The moan had escaped his lips before he could catch it and he saw the wicked glint in the pale blue eyes before him as Sherlock released him.

“But I have to work the late shift at the pub today,” said the detective, rolling out from beneath John as the older man tried in vain to allow his mind to catch up with the movement, “You can’t lay there all day Mo Chuisle.”

“I could go off you,” said John though the words lost some of their effect as he watched Sherlock head towards the small bathroom without bothering to cover his nakedness, curves that had no business being on a man catching his attention in the morning light, “Good God you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock turned back at the words, leaning against the doorway with his bottom lip caught between his teeth in a look that would have been called coquettish had it not been him that wore it, “You know we have been away from the cottage for quite a while, even with a fire it will take ages for the water to warm,” he said, “It would make sense for us to make use of the facilities here while we have them. We are still against the clock though, so…”

John smiled as Sherlock held out a hand to him, hurrying out of bed and taking it as he allowed himself to be led into the bathroom. The distraction did nothing to get them out of the room on time but Kathy merely smiled as Sherlock checked them out and paid the tab, the young woman making him promise to visit again soon so long as he brought John with him. Sherlock left her with all the assurances required before unashamedly taking John’s hand and leading him out into the bustling Killarney streets. 

With a leisurely gait they wandered through the small winding streets, stopping now and then in the curious shops that lined them. John had known it would be a mistake to enter the ancient looking bookshop but he had indulged Sherlock all the same, even as the younger man began pawing through ancient criminal tomes. Even John’s love of books was soon pushed to the limit but Sherlock showed no signs of wanting to leave so John pressed a kiss to the unruly black curls before heading out to the other shops that surrounded the main square. He had soon found himself buying small gifts for people back home, spending a little more on Mrs Hudson and Evangeline than he did on anyone else. He had already decided to tell Sherlock’s mother the gift was from the both of them and smiled at the thought that after such a short time as his partner he was already buying joint presents. He headed back out into the street, finding Sherlock waiting for him holding several paper wrapped books as well as a bag labelled from the deli they had passed during their walk. Reluctantly they returned to the car, neither wanting the day to end but knowing that they needed to be on the road to get back to the village before Aoife began to miss Sherlock at the pub. 

The journey back to the village was leisurely and relaxed, neither wanting to focus on John’s impending departure from Ireland that had suddenly become a very pressing reality when they had passed Farrenfore. Sherlock stopped them at a cliff for lunch, John amazed that the man had not only bought food as promised but also was quite happily eating it. They were both glad for the remote location and absence of Gardai as what had started innocently enough did not end so once Sherlock had found the catch that allowed the seats to recline back almost horizontally and by the time they left for the village the sun was already beginning to wane. 

Aoife admonished Sherlock for his tardiness when they finally stumbled into the pub, giggling over something neither was entirely sure they could remember the origin of but the woman’s knowing smile soon replaced any frown and John looked on as she pressed a warm kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, making the younger man smile as they moved to their places behind the bar. 

There were only locals in attendance and the evening was quiet, John happily joining in the conversations with the villagers who could speak both English and Gaelic acting as translators. By ten o’clock though the crowd had dwindled to only one or two people and Aoife soon released Sherlock from his work to join John. They managed little more than half an hour in the bar out of politeness before the covert touches beneath the table made home a more pressing priority and John blushed at his own teenage libido as Sherlock excused them both from the company with swift goodnights before almost bodily dragging him from the pub. 

So wrapped up in another they barely registered the car pulling up opposite Padraig’s garage over the way, Sherlock merely passing comment that many tourists got lost and stopped when they saw the first sign of civilisation to ask for directions before they continued into the night towards the cottage.

xxxx

John woke with a shiver and a curse at Ireland and all its chilly weather and run down cottages but was soon soothed as several warm blankets and then an equally warm arm was settled over him, Sherlock’s body cradling the length of his from behind.

“There’s a fret over the village again,” came Sherlock’s sleepy rumble in his ear, “I swear you brought them with you Mo Chuisle.”

John cracked open an eye and surveyed the low grimy window and seeing nothing but a white out beyond, “It looks thicker than the last one, how do you live like this?” he said, cradling Sherlock’s hand between both of his own against his stomach, “Sooner I get you home the better, I don’t even want to entertain the thought of leaving you here over winter.”

“We’ll do as needs must and anyway, Aoife will not let me freeze here,” said Sherlock, “She’s already told me the tourists dry up come November so there’ll be room at the pub for me to stay.”

“By November I’ll have you back in Baker Street,” said John fiercely, “Whatever I have to do.”

Sherlock hummed softly against the back of his neck before pressing a kiss there, “And there’s my soldier,” he said tightening his embrace, “I love it when you get all riled up. You can’t always move mountains John.”

“I can for you,” said John, turning in his embrace to face him, “I will for you.”

Sherlock smiled, settling his arms around him once more and pressing their foreheads together, the fingers of one hands pressing to the pulse point on John’s neck, “Mo Chuisle,” he said, “Is breá liom tú.”

John closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips as he let the words wash over him, “I have no idea what you’re saying but it sounds beautiful,” he said, “Will you ever tell me the translation? You could me calling me allsorts for all I know.”

Petal warm lips met his, the kiss light and unhurried, lingering with the warmth of the bed.

“One day, Mo Chuisle, I promise,” said Sherlock, “When the times right for you to hear them.”

John frowned but it was quickly kissed away, a soft tongue gently probing for entrance that was swiftly granted. He rolled onto his back, pulling the younger man with him but Sherlock, pulled away, fluttery kisses to his cheeks taking the sting from the action. 

“Don’t get me started,” said the detective, using his hands either side of John’s head to push himself up, “Despite the appearance to the contrary its already eight thirty and Aoife won’t appreciate me being late after she let me go so early.”

John groaned as Sherlock rolled away from him and clambered out from beneath the blankets, “Why didn’t you wake me sooner then?”

“Because I woke up ten minutes before you did,” said Sherlock, throwing John’s battered old jumper on before he coaxed the fire back to life, “I think you wore me out.”

John knew the description of the smile that made its way to his face at the statement would be referred to as smug by anyone who saw it but he couldn’t bring himself to care, instead indulging in the tight pull of the younger man’s sleep pants as he crouched to better tend the fire, “Is that so?” he said before he gave into the impulse as reached out, grabbing the back of the jumper Sherlock wore and pulling him back onto the bed, trapping him in a cage of arms, “You shouldn’t work if you’re so tired, Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock’s laugh swiftly turned into a groan as John’s lips fastened against the sensitive skin of his neck, “You are quite incorrigible,” he said, fingers knotting in John’s hair but doing nothing to pull him away, “Think of the anticipation, think of spending the whole day knowing how much I want you and then fulfilling that tonight.”

“I’ll want you by then anyway, whether I have you now or not,” said John, teeth scraping the high ridge of Sherlock’s collarbone as his fingers tugged at the neck of the jumper he wore, “I never wanted anyone as much in my life.”

Sherlock’s fingers tightened in John’s hair, forcing his lips to meet his in a heady kiss that reduced the world to only the points where their bodies met; exile, threats and sea frets forgotten. The kiss slowed and softened, John feeling Sherlock’s arms move to cradle him close, the passion of moments before abandoned for something else. John pulled back far enough to look into the pale eyes before him, seeing the depth of emotion in them that had his heart stutter in his chest. Words he had thought so many times bubbled forth, ready to spill passed his lips even with the trepidation that came with them.

“Sherlock I…”

The clap of thunder startled them both, the rain beginning to hammer on the roof above them with little mercy as Sherlock fell back against the pillows with a groan.

“That’s all we bloody need,” he said, “I knew we shouldn’t have left the car outside Padraig’s. You should stay here until the rain at least passes, I’ll come back down and pick you up then.”

John rolled to his side, regretting the moment lost as Sherlock climbed out of bed, shivering in the chill of the room, “I’ll come up with you now. I hated it here on my own last time there was a fret,” he said, “Besides, its not long till I have to go home and I’d rather spend that with you.”

“Don’t talk about home,” said Sherlock, “Not yet Mo Chuisle.”

John smiled sadly, “It’s a reality we have to face,” he said as Sherlock headed into the bathroom, “We have decisions to make, not least how and when we let Mycroft know.”

Silence was the answer but he knew he had been heard, not hearing the running of water from either the tap or the shower. He shifted until he was closed to the fire, warming his hands as he continued to talk.

“Please don’t be upset, I wish we could just pretend the world away but we can’t Sherlock. We need to work out how often I can visit without giving you away, how I can get money to you when you need it and don’t argue that point, I want to look after you,” he said, hearing the tap turn on, “Please say something sweetheart.”

“If I say anything then it makes it real. I don’t want it to be real John.”

The voice was soft and almost unfamiliar in it tone and the sound broke John’s heart. He got to his feet, heading behind the curtain to find Sherlock leant against the Belfast sink, the water splashing into it from the tap but not being put to any use. He crossed the small distance between them and turned off the water, settling his hands on the younger man’s hips as he ducked to meet his gaze.

“I don’t want to go,” said John, “If it were possible I would stay here and say damn it all to the rest of the world but this can never be home or reality for us. What would we do here? I could practice of course but we could never go out if we had to keep you hidden. You could stay working for Aoife but that will never be enough for you. I’d be forced to watch you run mad and don’t pretend you wouldn’t. I’d rather go home in a few days, come back to you when I can and work out a way to get you home than spend forever here living only a half life with you. Do you understand?”

“I could cope,” said Sherlock, “With you…for you, I could cope with all this if I had to.”

“No you couldn’t,” said John, “Not without killing the man that had me crossing the Irish Sea in the hope that I would find him alive. So find that courage I know runs through you and know that this isn’t an ending, this is the start of the fight to get you home that I will make sure that we win.”

Sherlock managed a weak smile, “My soldier,” he said resting his forehead against John’s, “You do realise how much I’ll have to lean on those broad shoulders of yours if we’re to get through this.”

“You can lean on me as much as you need to,” said John, catching his lips in a soft kiss, “Now come on, we need to get to Aoife’s, she has breakfast and central heating.”

The rain hadn’t even attempted to abate when they stepped out into the depth of the fret, the mist made all the more miserable by the storm. They kept tight hold of one another as they headed blindly up the road, John reliant on Sherlock to keep them on the path. At first John thought it was another rumble of thunder that he heard but soon the rhythm of horse hooves at a gallop filled his ears though he could not see where they were coming from. Sherlock pressed close to him, instinctively trying to place his body between John and the threat. The horse finally moved out of the darkness, heading straight towards them and without any other option Sherlock was forced to shove John away from him, the horse passing in a blur as John struggled to keep his feet.

“Sherlock?” he called into the thick mist, as the horse continued further down the road, “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine, I got out of his way,” came the voice from the gloom, “Stay where you are and I’ll get to you.”

“Should we go after the horse, someone will be missing him,” said John, reaching out even though he still couldn’t see the detective.

“He’ll be alright,” said Sherlock, finally stepping from the gloom and lacing their fingers together, “He’ll get himself home. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said John, “Soaked but fine. Sooner we get inside the better.”

“Easier said than done,” said Sherlock, “I think we both turned direction several times when the horse came at us, I’m not sure what direction we are pointed in. Keep close to my side, if we stay on the road we’ll either get to the pub or back to the cottage.”

John tightened his fingers around Sherlock’s, following him as they gingerly made their way along the road. It was with great relief that they began to see lights looming out of the darkness, finally stumbling up the path towards the pub in relief of the warmth it offered. Their appearances were clearly shocking if Aoife’s reaction was anything to go by and they were soon wrapped in blankets by the roaring fire in the bar.

“You pair should have stayed home,” she said, “There’s not going to be much in the way of business going on today, not with the fret hanging over the place.”

“We were better off here than the cottage,” said Sherlock, “It was freezing when we woke up.”

“If it keeps on you can both stay here tonight,” said Aoife, “I’ve only got Mister Sullivan in.”

Sherlock looked up from the cup of tea in his hands, his expression one of concern, “I didn’t know you had anyone in.”

“Came in not a few moments after you lads headed home,” said Aoife, heading back behind the bar, “Got himself lost on the road was too tired to go on. Nice man, English.”

“English!” said John, “He’ll recognise Sherlock.”

Aoife shook her head, “Not likely, he’s been in America for the past two years, plane got diverted into Shannon when a passenger took ill and he decided to visit a few of the tourist points around here before carrying on,” she said, “I wouldn’t have let him stay if I thought he’d be a risk John.”

“Even so, it is a risk,” said the doctor, “Perhaps we should head home.”

“You head back out in the fret if you like,” said Sherlock, “I can always work in the cellar. You’re as recognisable as I am, wander around up here for a bit and see if this Sullivan fellow recognises you.”

John frowned, wishing he wouldn’t risk sounding petulant if he insisted they retreated back to the cottage once more. Sherlock quickly finished his tea and shucked off the blanket, speaking briefly to Aoife in Gaelic before heading down to the cellar. John bristled at being kept out of the conversation but followed Sherlock all the same. Before too long they were both working, shifting barrels and attempting to fix the aging pipes that fed the bar despite the futility of it. When Aoife’s guest appeared for his breakfast John headed upstairs, engaging the man in conversation and finding no reason to believe that he recognised him or knew anything of Sherlock’s story. Unable to venture far in the mists the guest headed back to his room and John called Sherlock up from the cellar without worry of his identity being revealed.

Aoife had soon persuaded them both into the kitchen, the pair of them helping her with her cooking although Sherlock seemed to make more of a mess than anything of substance as John tried at least to mimic the Irish woman’s skill. Their rhythm was interrupted as the oven Aoife had had a near miss with days before chose once more the back draft, the woman barely diving out of its way as Sherlock rushed over and slammed it shut, killing the flame within.

“You promised me you’d get it fixed!” said Sherlock, turning on Aoife the second the oven was shut down, “I know we’re remote Aoife but you could have got someone out by now, you’ve got enough saved.”

“I’ve not had the time,” said Aoife, wiping her hands on her apron and hissing at the burn the oven had caused as it scraped along the material.

John took her hand, examining the burn before leading her to the tap, letting the cool water run over it even as Sherlock continued to berate her.

“You’ve had plenty of time and if you haven’t then what the hell am I for?” said Sherlock, “As soon as this fret clears I’m going into Killarney and I’m getting someone to come and look at it and if they condemn it then so be it. I’d rather we had to put food on hold than risk you getting hurt.”

“He’s right Aoife,” said John, even as he felt the woman tense for a retort, “I know this is you business but the tourists won’t be coming for much longer and better a few weeks without than injuring yourself. This is mild but what if it happens when we’re not here. You won’t always have a doctor on hand you know.”

“I know,” said Aoife with a sigh, “I’m sorry lads. I’ll get it sorted, the second the fret is up.”

“I’ll go into the city with you, they won’t be able to quote stupid prices if there’s two of us,” said Sherlock, “We’ll manage with whatever it brings Aoife.”

Aoife pulled her hand from under the water, dabbing it dry as she crossed to the younger man, taking his face in her hands and pulling him to her, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re a good lad Sherlock Holmes,” she said, “I’ll miss you when you go home.”

“I won’t go for a while,” he said, “And I’ll come back, we both will.”

“Definitely,” said John, “And they’ll always be a room for you in London.”

Aoife smiled slyly, “What with you two shacking up and all?”

John met Sherlock’s gaze, seeing the softness in his eyes, “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I’m sure the papers will come up with a suitable term,” said Sherlock, as Aoife released him, the woman reaching out for John’s hand before joining it with Sherlock’s.

“Whatever its called, I’m glad you both found each other,” said Aoife, “I’ve never seen you happier than you have been these past few days. How about you both take a break, I left the fire going in the bar so it’ll be warm in there and I’ll bring you through some tea.”

John was surprised when no argument was forthcoming from Sherlock who tugged him back into the bar, settling them both by the fire with the chairs pulled close together. It wasn’t long before John realised that talk of home had once more brought on the melancholy from the morning, Sherlock curling close as he could and all but silent as he tugged John’s arm around him. The heavy silence was almost sleepy but John indulged in it, hoping that it would chase away the world already obliterated by the fret outside. On instinct he curled his fingers through the thick black hair, silking the strands against his fingertips as Sherlock pressed into his touch. The detective barely moved even when Aoife set the tea tray in front of them before bustling back into the depths of the pub, indolent in John’s arms and far quieter than John had ever known him.

It was several hours later when they heard footsteps from upstairs and separated more in curiosity than necessity as the elusive Mister Sullivan made an appearance once more. With a subtlety that had developed during his months in Ireland, John watched as Sherlock quickly questioned the new arrival without appearing to do so, finally coming away convinced that he didn’t recognise or even know of him. The company was welcome as the day seemed to drag on endlessly, the fret never once lifting and keeping all forms of tourism from the village. As the day grew darker several intrepid villagers made their way into the bar, Sherlock joining the musicians in the hope of cheering the populace as Aoife worked the bar. They had barely reached nine o’clock when the bar cleared, neither the music nor the company improving on the cold oppression of the fret, leaving them with little to do.

“Sure, I’m hoping these frets aren’t going to be too common,” said Aoife, “I can’t remember them being this bad so early in the year. You’ll stay here tonight won’t you lads, save you having to walk home.”

John was about to offer his eager thanks but Sherlock’s voice cut him short.

“We’ll head home, I’ve found my way in worse than this,” he said.

Aoife frowned but nodded, “Alright then, you’d best get off before it gets too late.”

Sherlock headed to the bar, speaking softly to the landlady in Gaelic, making her laugh with whatever he was saying as he collected the belongings he’d left there. John watched them both, the easy friendliness that existed between them comforting him with the thought that Sherlock would not be totally alone when he returned to England. He let his gaze move to the window, seeing the heavy mist that still hung outside and longing to avoid going out in it but he knew that Sherlock was a creature of habit and that the cottage however temporary had been adopted as their home.

He stretched and got out of his chair, turning to work out the kink that had settled in his spine. The movement brought the other silent figure in the room into view and John froze as he saw the look in his eyes. Sullivan’s eyes were trained on Sherlock, hungry and unblinking as the younger man leant over the bar to kiss Aoife’s cheek goodnight. The look was familiar and realisation came to John as his memory conjured up images of the dark bar in Killarney and the stare from the man in the corner that had had his possessive streak forcing its way to the forefront. Sherlock seemed oblivious of John’s discomfort, too busy continuing to talk to Aoife even as they headed to the door.

It was only when they stepped out into the heavy mist that John let his tension truly show, taking a firm hold of Sherlock’s arm as he tugged him away from the bar and down the road despite the terrible visibility.

“Easy,” said Sherlock pulling them to a halt and wrenching his arm from John’s grip, “What was that for?”

“Its cold, let’s go home,” said John.

Sherlock frowned, “I don’t normally ask this question but what the hell happened back there that I don’t know about?”

John sighed heavily, taking hold of Sherlock’s hands, thumbs rubbing over the knuckles in agitation, “Sullivan, the bloke staying at the pub, I know who he is.”

“You know him?” said Sherlock, “But you said…”

“I didn’t recognise him at first but when we were leaving I caught him looking at you and I recognised him,” said John, “He was the man who was looking at you in the bar the other night, the one who made me jealous. He must have followed us here, followed you.”

“That wasn’t him John,” said Sherlock, tightening the grip on his fingers, “I made a point of watching the man who had you in such a state the other night and that wasn’t him, they’re similar but trust me when I say they were not the same man.”

“But the way he was looking at you…”

“He was looking at Aoife, I’ve noticed all night,” said Sherlock, “And Aoife has too. He likes her and she’s not exactly repulsed by him.”

John felt a smile quirk his lips, “That’s why you had us leave?”

“Of course, there are things I don’t need to hear,” said Sherlock, “Now stop thinking every stranger is eyeing me up and let’s go home, I don’t exactly enjoy standing in a freezing sea fret.”

John tugged his hands free, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s slim waist as they followed the road back down the hill, their steps as swift as they dared. Sherlock’s arm was tight around John’s shoulders, keeping him close to his side and offering him a comforting anchor in the gloom. Whimsy seemed to be inspired alongside fear in the mist and John couldn’t help the laugh that passed his lips.

“Something amusing?” said Sherlock.

“The mist, a proper pea souper if we were old fashioned Yarders,” said John.

“Label yourself a Yarder if you must but I am and will always be a consulting detective,” said Sherlock.

“Alright, alright,” said John, “But imagine it, imagine we got taken back in time, late Nineteenth Century and we were pursuing some of the cases we went on. Chinese gangs, masquerading as acrobats, the people watching them all crinolines and top hats. A young governess turning up at Baker Street begging for aid because her employer had her cut her hair, forcing her without her realising to act as his daughter…”

“John that was a modelling agency, that girl barely even brought us a case,” said Sherlock though his voice held little reproach.

“Oh use your imagination,” said John.

“Fine, a wizened old man is seen skulking around the unfortunates in London all the tales around him of India and the exotic. A woman meets him, helps him only to recognise him, an age old love story brought from the colonies to the heart of Victorian England,” said Sherlock before his smile turned feral and he span away from John, disappearing into the mist.

John laughed but it soon died as all he heard was silence, Sherlock not returning to his side as he had thought he would, “Sherlock?” he said, trying to keep his tone light, “Come on now its cold.”

Nothing but silence answered him again and he turned on the spot, realising when he stopped that he was unsure what direction he was pointed in anymore.

“Stop mucking about, not in a fret, you’ve said yourself how dangerous they are,” said John, flinching as he felt a gust of air against his ear, turning towards it but seeing nothing, “Sherlock?”

“I’m playing your game John,” came the voice from the mist, “Imagining our cases. Spies at every turn, haunting us, hunting us and spectral dogs looming out of the darkness.”

The last line was almost shouted, accompanied by two strong arms grabbing him from behind and a growl at his ear. John felt his knees buckle at the shock but Sherlock held him firm, the deep baritone laugh rumbling next to his ear.

“I could go off you,” he groused but the pitch was lost as warm lips pressed to his neck, “Take me home you idiot before something really does come out of the dark for us.”

“Are you frightened Mo Chuisle?”

“No I bloody well am not,” said John, catching Sherlock’s hand, “But I am cold and getting colder and what I need is a young, warm consulting detective wrapped around me so I can warm up.”

“Well I can do the warm and consulting detective part,” said Sherlock, as they finally stumbled up the path to the door to the cottage.

John slipped his hands underneath the now familiar leather jacket and t-shirt, smiling at the shiver his cold hands induced as Sherlock fumbled with the lock, “And the wrapped around me part?”

“If you let me open the door,” said Sherlock, his body instinctively pressing back into John’s touch even as he fought the lock.

John refused to relent, slipping his fingers further down beneath the waistband of the rough denim jeans, feeling Sherlock shudder as he ran a finger along the rise of one elegant hipbone. The lock finally gave and they both stumbled inside, the door slamming shut behind them. Despite his teasing John was surprised when the tables were turned on him and he found himself pressed back against the wood of the door, slim, quick hands swiftly divesting him of his jacket and jumper before working loose the buttons of his shirt, lips latching onto the delicate skin of his throat. For several blissful moments John enjoyed the attentions but was quickly distracted by the groan of the door as it protested against their combined weight and the cold that seemed all the more heightened in the house than it was outside. He reluctantly took firm hold of the soft black curls, tugging Sherlock back from his ministrations.

“Sweetheart I don’t think the door is going to stand much more of this,” he said, giving in to the pull of the pink stained lips before he pushed back from the door, “Why don’t we find somewhere a little more comfortable?”

Sherlock said nothing but hooked his fingers into John’s belt loops, tugging him towards the mattresses on the floor, the look in his pale eyes enough to have John far more reliant on him for any sort of momentum rather than his own body. John allowed himself to be pulled down on top of the long slim body, the barrier of clothes barely noticed as Sherlock recaptured his lips, the kiss hungry and needful, the charm of his inexperience still shining through. With a will power he wasn’t sure he had John finally pulled away, hands holding Sherlock down against the mattress as he tried to follow him.

“Lie back,” said John, “Let me take care of you. I’ll light the fire and by the time I come back here I want those clothes gone.”

“Damn the fire,” said Sherlock vehemently, struggling in John’s grip.

John smiled, “You need to learn some patience,” he said, “Besides, get the fire lit now and I won’t have to get out of bed to do it afterwards.”

Sherlock ceased his struggle and John leant down to kiss him softly, not allowing the younger man to deepen it as he rolled away, amazed at his own self control as he turned to the fire. His hands however held a slight tremor as he shifted fresh logs into place, kindling them with torn pieces of newspaper. He was glad of the ease of lighters when he felt the press of a warm, naked skin against his back, two long arms wrapping around his waist. He set the lit kindling amongst the logs before he reached back over his shoulder, capturing the soft black curls in his fingers as Sherlock pressed soft kisses along the line of his neck.

“Have you done enough procrastinating now Mo Chuisle?” he murmured softly in John’s ear, the timbre of it seemingly hotwired through to the pleasure centres on John’s body.

“Anyone would think you wanted something?” said John.

“You wearing far less,” said Sherlock, teeth worrying the skin on John’s good shoulder as his hands fell to the waist of his jeans, deftly flicking open the button.

“I could take off my shoes…”

“John,” came the growl at his throat, before the tone turned playfully petulant, “I’m beginning to think you don’t want me anymore.”

John took hold of Sherlock’s hand, tugging it from the button of his jeans and placing it lower, allowing him to feel the hardness that pushed against the denim, “Does that feel like I don’t want you?”

Sherlock groaned against his ear, his hand caressing gently before he fumbled with the last of the fastenings and slipped his hand inside. John let his head fall back against the younger man’s shoulder as he stroked him, bringing the burgeoning hardness to steel. Sherlock took his weight, pulling him back down onto the bed and slipping from beneath him, making quick work of his remaining clothes. John barely had a chance to register the cool air against his newly exposed skin when Sherlock’s warm mouth descended onto his erection, the sudden touch causing him to arch and keen unguardedly, his hand flying to the black curls and holding him in place. Sherlock needed little persuasion to remain at his task and John could do little but watch the firelight dance against his hair as he bobbed without pause between his legs. The sight soon proved too much and he fell back against the bed, moaning as the movement caused the delightful suction to cease. 

“Tease,” he said as warm lips pressed against his hipbone.

Sherlock hummed softly against the delicate skin of his stomach as he slowly kissed his way upwards, “Takes one to know one,” he said, “I have plans for you tonight Mo Chuisle.”

“And what…” said John, biting off a groan as Sherlock rose higher, lips and then teeth scraping across his flesh until he took a nipple into his mouth, teasing it to a hard nub, “What plans would they be?”

“An experiment?” said Sherlock, shifting until he was straddling John’s thighs, the place of contact between their bodies hot, heavy and already slick with need, “I want to see how hard I can make you come.”

John tugged him down, biting at Sherlock’s full lower lip before capturing him in a kiss, their tongues duelling for dominance before the need for air parted them, “Don’t you have enough data on that already?” he said, breathlessly, his heart stuttering in his chest as he nearly lost himself in the icy pools of his lover’s eyes.

“Insufficient,” said Sherlock, kissing a slow path from John’s chest to his neck, teeth gently scraping his ear lobe before he dropped his voice to a purr John was sure would register on a subsonic scale, “I’ve seen you come when I touch you and when I suck you.”

“Oh God!” moaned John as Sherlock ground his hips down, beginning a soft rhythm that he could not help but respond to.

“I want you to come for me John, I want to feel you come for me,” said Sherlock, “I want you inside me.”

Desire flashed through John’s veins but it was soon tempered by worry. The fear soon translated into his body and Sherlock pulled back from him enough to see his face, concern etched on his delicate features.

“Did I say something wrong?” said the detective.

John brought a hand to the pale cheek, thumb tracing the sharp cheekbone, “No, god no sweetheart,” he said, “But what you’re asking…I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’d never hurt me John,” said Sherlock, covering John’s hand with his own as he leaned into the touch, “I want this.”

John shook his head, “Its too dangerous, not without anything to prepare you with,” he said, “I may not have been with a man before but I know the damage it can do, especially without anything to ease the way. One day we can be together that way but without anything to…”

John was cut short as Sherlock released his hand, reaching beneath the pillow he lay on and pulling out a slim clear bottle from beneath. The brand was foreign but John recognised it all the same, his eyes widening in surprise more for the thought of Sherlock actually going into a shop and buying lubricant for anything other than an experiment. 

“I want this John, wanted it since I realised I wanted you,” said Sherlock, “When we were in Killarney the other day and you went to the other shops it didn’t take much thought to head to the chemist when I was coming to meet you. We have so little time left before you have to go back and if I have to be alone I want these memories to keep me warm when I miss you.”

John blinked back the threat of tears that jumped to his eyes as he heard the vulnerability in Sherlock’s voice, knowing it was for love that he had made the request. He brought him down into a kiss, the touch soft before he spoke.

“If this is truly what you want,” he said, “But we’ll take this slowly and stop the moment it even begins to hurt you. I could never cause you pain Sherlock.”

“You won’t,” said Sherlock, deepening the kiss once more, allowing John to roll them over until it was he laid back against the mattress.

John pushed up on one arm, looking down at the pale body before him and tracing a finger between the lightly defined pectoral muscles and marvelling at the flush it brought to the man beneath him.

“You are such a gift,” he said, pressing his lips over his heart and feeling the faint leap it gave beneath, “So beautiful.”

He let his hand drift further south, taking hold of Sherlock’s waning erection and bringing it swiftly back to hardness, stroking a little harder when he heard the faint hitch in the younger man’s breathing. He sat up on his knees, using his free hand to gently stroke Sherlock’s thigh, moving his touch higher with each pass until the detective tilted his hips upwards on instinct allowing him to slip his fingers lower, tracing the soft, hidden skin he found there. Emboldened by the breathy moans he continued the caress, pressing softly against his perineum until his lover cried out, hands fisting into the sheets beneath him. John moaned softly in reply, leaning forward to press a kiss to the quivering stomach muscles before him as he reached up to pluck the bottle of lubricant from his lover’s fingers.

He quickly covered his fingers in the slick gel, rubbing them together as he looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes seeing desire there but also the barest hint of fear, even his bravest friend wary of such a step into the unknown.

“If it gets too much, if it hurts then we stop,” said John as he worked his fingers lower once more, tracing the crease before he found the tight, puckered opening, “You have to relax for me, my darling, relax and trust me.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes fluttering closed as John gently stroked his slim flank, the touch soothing as his other hand began a slow circular caressing, spreading the cool lubricant around the sensitive hole. He felt the younger man slowly begin to relax, his breathing growing deeper yet shuddering on every exhale. Pushing down any final lingering doubts John let one finger breach the tight opening, feeling the instinctive clench as Sherlock let out a shuddering gasp.

“Hush,” said John, stilling his hand whilst the other continued the caress at Sherlock’s hip, lacing his fingers with his lover’s as he reached blindly for his hand, “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Sherlock whimpered but rocked his hips against John’s hand, pressing himself further onto the one slick finger as the muscles slowly relaxed to accommodate it. John pressed a little deeper, marvelling at the tight, slick warmth that greeted him. 

“More,” said Sherlock, his voice barely audible, “Please John, I need more of you.”

John leaned forward and kissed him softly before he sat back, bringing his free hand to his lover’s cock and stroking firmly, revelling in the pleasured cry it pulled from the man beneath him. He withdrew his finger from Sherlock’s body before he paired it with a second, meeting resistance once more but his body yielded far more swiftly. John scissored his fingers, gently stretching and opening Sherlock’s entrance until he felt the younger man shudder, his face faltering from pleasure to pain.

“Sweetheart this is hurting you,” said John, moving to withdraw as Sherlock bore himself down upon his fingers.

“It’ll pass,” said Sherlock, “Please, I need this, I need you.”

John wanted to protest but once more the same deep affection reflected back to him in Sherlock’s pale eyes, a look that said what they had yet not dared to utter to one another. He continued his touch, feeling the muscles slowly accommodate him as he pressed further, curling his fingers until he felt the soft, yielding spot within; Sherlock’s body arching with pleasure as he stroked his prostate. 

“Good?” he said, already knowing the answer.

“Oh God,” said Sherlock, his body shuddering as he settled once more on the mattress, “John, please, I’m ready. I want to feel you inside me.”

John wanted to resist but his own desire, for so long ignored in favour of his lover’s forced its way to the fore and he gently eased his fingers free, reaching once more for the lubricant and slicking his own dripping arousal with it. Sherlock raised himself on his elbows, staring down as John prepared himself, pale eyes darkening with desire as he pulled John down to him, capturing his lips in a kiss that grew in heat as John’s slick erection rubbed against his own.

John broke free from the kiss, his face at once a war of desire and concern as he met his partner’s gaze, “Turn over,” he said, “This will be easier on your hands and knees.”

“Easier, maybe,” said Sherlock, “But I want to see your face. I want to kiss you, feel your heart against mine, watch you as you come undone.”

John’s heart leapt at the words, knowing he wanted nothing more than to be able to look down at the man before him as he had every night they had spent together since they had found each others arms. He reached blindly for one of the spare pillows, shifting until he could place it beneath Sherlock’s hips and spreading the younger man’s legs around his, baring him to both his touch and gaze. He slicked his fingers once more, pressing back into his body and finding him open and relaxed before he pulled them free, spreading more lubricant on his cock as he positioned himself at Sherlock’s entrance.

“Whenever you want this to stop, tell me,” he said, “However far along we are, stop me.”

“No more waiting,” said Sherlock, “Make me yours John, take me and make me yours.”

John needed no more persuasion, pressing forward against the unyielding ring, finding a tightness he had never thought possible. For a moment he felt the resistance but then Sherlock’s body relaxed, welcoming him inside into the warm depths that fluttered and clenched around him. His own body shuddered with desire, resisting the urge to thrust wildly despite the near pain it caused him. He heard Sherlock’s whimper and looked down to see his eyes closed and brow furrowed in pain but as he moved to pull out one slim leg pressed tight against his thighs, holding him in place.

“Good, you feel so good,” he murmured softly, “John. My John. Move.”

John rolled his hips, a shallow thrust that met with the most delicious friction, Sherlock’s cry finally one of pleasure as one hand released its death grip on the sheets to pull John closer to him. Emboldened John thrust deeper, setting a rhythm that sooner had his lover moaning softly with each push, meeting him move for move. He leant down, thrusts growing shallow as he met his lover with a kiss that spoke volumes before he pulled back, taking hold of one long, pale leg and hitching it onto his shoulder. He pressed his lips to the muscled calf, pressing deeper into Sherlock’s body, knowing the moment he hit the sweet spot within him as he cried out, almost throwing John free as he arched violently. John brought his other hand to his lover’s cock, finding it slick with pre-cum as he stroked in time with his thrusts.

Sherlock’s words became almost incoherent, murmurs of John’s name or cries to a deity he had no belief in, but they hit John all the same, each sound racing down his spine to the growing ache inside him. Both of them were slick with sweat as the pace lost all rhythm, both straining for release but it was Sherlock who fell first, John’s name torn from him as he spilled between them, hot spurts covering them both. The sight of Sherlock so lost to pleasure was enough to push John over with him, two firm thrusts all it took for him to clutch Sherlock’s body tight to him, filling him with his seed before he fell forward onto his semen-slicked body, panting against the snowy white neck as long arms came around to hold him.

“My darling, my love,” Sherlock murmured in his ear, “Mo Chuisle.”

John felt the tears well in his eyes as his breathing slowed, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s yet racing pulse, “I can’t leave you, not now, not ever,” he said, slipping from his lover’s body and moving until it was Sherlock who was cradled against him, arms and legs entwined until they were pressed as close to one another as possible.

One of Sherlock’s hands caressed his cheek, turning him into a kiss, “Is breá liom tú,” he murmured.

“Tell me?” said John, hearing the emotion in the words even though he did not understand them, “Tell me what it means.”

“Is breá liom tú,” said Sherlock, taking John’s hand and pressing it to his chest, right over his heart, “I love you.”

John felt his heart leap to his throat, leaving words impossible as his eyes filled with tears. He moved his hand to the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling him into a kiss, a desperation in it that he hoped conveyed his own feelings. 

“So long,” he said when he finally found his voice, “For so long Sherlock, I’ve loved you for so long. I didn’t know, not until you fell and then I lied to myself. Oh my darling, I’m so glad I found you.”

Sherlock smiled, “I should almost thank Moriarty,” he said wryly, “If we’d continued at home, we may never have found this.”

John shook his head, “It might have taken longer but this would have happened,” he said, “When I think back on it, it was almost inevitable. I used to watch you sometimes, when you were so engrossed in an experiment that you didn’t notice.”

Sherlock pressed his face into the warm skin of John’s neck, his hand caressing his arm as he attempted to hitch a leg over John’s thigh but he flinched in the action. 

“Are you alright?” said the doctor, rolling Sherlock onto his back, his face a picture of concern.

Sherlock smiled, reaching up a hand and running the backs of his fingers over John’s cheek, “I’m a little sore but I’ll live,” he said, “Don’t look so worried.”

John gave into the tugging hands, settling himself beside his young lover and letting him cradle him close. He reached blindly for the blankets, dragging them over them as he pressed closer, stroking a hand over the smooth skin of Sherlock’s chest.

“You must tell me if it hurts too much,” he said as Sherlock nuzzled gently into his hair.

He felt the detective’s smile, long arms tugging him closer still until John was settled half on top of him, legs entwining on instinct.

“John,” he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep, “I love you.”

John smiled, his lips finding the steady pulse in Sherlock’s neck and moving against it as he spoke, “I love you too.”

He let his eyes drift shut as he heard the soft sigh in response to his words, the warmth of the blankets and the body beneath him pulling fatigue to the forefront of sensation. He felt Sherlock’s gently stroking fingers grow still as the detective’s breathing grew heavy and even, the sound coaxing him too into sleep.


	12. Ashes to Ashes

It felt like mere moments when John next opened his eyes but a brief glance at the fire told him otherwise, the log well burnt down and the blaze low. He looked down at the sleeping form next to him, Sherlock curled on his side towards him, hands tucked beneath his chin in an almost childlike pose. He stroked a hand over the wild black curls, smoothing those that seemed intent on sticking out from the rest. Sherlock stirred, pressing into John’s hand with sigh before he fell back into the depths of sleep. John would have quite happily have stayed watching the rise and fall of each of the younger man’s breaths but the need that had awoken him reasserted itself and he clambered out of bed, shuddering in the chill of the room. He reached blindly for his clothes, locating his underwear and shirt, pulling them both on to guard against the cold. 

He placed another log on the fire, stoking it into life until the blaze flared warmly in the grate once more. He headed into the bathroom, cursing the freezing stones beneath his feet as he hurried to use the meagre facilities. The water was tepid rather than warm but far from freezing as he washed his hands, a rarity in the cottage and John found himself worrying once more about leaving Sherlock behind in such a place. The feeling left him with a strong longing and he headed back behind the curtain to the bedroom. 

The room was as he left it, the bed an unmade mess on the floor, strewn with their discarded clothes and the fret hanging on the windows in swirls of thick mist. The only difference was Sherlock who was sat up in bed, eyes trained on the low window.

“Lie down sweetheart,” said John, crawling over to him and slipping his arms around his waist, the coolness of the younger man’s skin causing him to reach for the blankets, “Its freezing, get back into bed.”

“Something’s not right,” said Sherlock, his voice sounding distant.

John smiled, “You’re dreaming love, everything’s perfect,” he said, trying to persuade him down onto the bed, “Sleep.”

Sherlock shook his head, “No there’s something wrong,” he said, “The fret, it’s not right, something’s not right.”

John turned his eyes back to the window, trying to work out what was different but unable to see anything, “You’re half asleep, everything’s perfectly…”

John trailed off as he saw it, the darker swirls in the mist and then the tiny red lights, sparks he soon realised, that tumbled through the fret. Sherlock was on his feet in a second, pulling on his clothes without a word. He had barely stamped into his shoes before he was flying out of he door, into the fret without a second thought. John scrambled to his feet, struggling into his own jeans and shirt; buttoning up his shirt as he ran out into the dark night beyond. The acrid smell of smoke hit his senses and he knew even without seeing anything that something large was alight.

“Sherlock!” he cried in the dark, “Sherlock!”

He received no response, the detective too far ahead or at least that was John’s hope as he thought of how easy it was to get lost or fall in the fret. He moved as quickly as he could up the hill, the smell and then the eerie orange glow in the distance keeping him heading in the right direction. It wasn’t long until he heard Sherlock’s voice, the tone desperate as he cried out, the words too muffled by the mist and the growing crackle of fire. Other voices were starting to join the detective’s but finally his cut through clearly and his words made John’s blood run cold.

“Aoife! Aoife where are you?”

John’s pace increased as his mind began to process both the sounds and the hazy images ahead of them, all but crashing into one of the villagers as he skidded to a halt, looking on in horror at the pub that had become such a centre piece of his life in less than a fortnight as it blazed. Villagers were hurrying from their homes, one frantically on the phone while others rushed with buckets of water but they were pointless against the fire that had taken too firm a hold. The fire belched choking smoke, heat not allowing anyone to get close but that didn’t stop anyone from trying.

Without warning the building groaned before the nearside fell in, the arch above the main door the only thing that keep the stone wall upright. John didn’t even have a chance to call out as Sherlock broke for the listing building, slamming bodily into the door and toppling it in on the second go. John heard his own cry as he watched Sherlock run into the burning building, instinct making him follow but two strong arms closed around him, holding him back from the flames. Padraig’s grip was a force to be reckoned with and try as he might John could not throw him off. Another almighty crash rang out from the building as the doorway gave way, trapping both Sherlock and Aoife within. 

The villagers continued to try and fight the flames as best they could but the fire continued to rage, the ancient building falling easily to it. John watched on helplessly, his heart shattering in his chest as he tried to fathom what he had just witnessed, convinced he would feel a familiar warm hand come to his shoulder and he would find himself mistaken by the mists as to who it was that had run into the flames. He barely heard the bang to start with, the noise indiscernible amongst the roar of the fire or the shouts of the villagers but whether it was chance or some connection he did not understand his eyes were drawn to the cellar doors, seeing them warp in a rhythm as though someone was pressing on them from below.

“Sherlock,” he said, a mere murmur to himself before the soldier in him came to the fore, “Everyone, the cellar, get it open.”

Most stood dumbfounded at the command, language or shock rendering it nonsense but a few took heed, following John as he ran to the cellar. The heat of the flames almost pushed them back but John pushed forward, getting as close as he could to the cellar and seeing it chained with the padlock within.

“Sherlock!” he called, “Are you there?”

“I’ve got Aoife,” came the spluttered response, “I can’t find the key. You’ll have to smash it in.”

“Get as far back as you can,” called John, not knowing how far the flames had taken hold within.

John searched around him, finding several abandoned logs from a once flourishing woodpile. The others with him took heed and followed suit and he was glad of Padraig’s strength as they set to work on the wood of the cellar door. The ancient panelling splintered and snapped but held stubbornly, each pause they took to survey their efforts being met by the roar of the flames and the spluttered coughs beneath them.

“Sherlock hold on, please hold on,” said John, almost to himself as he continued to pound the door, finally seeing a substantial enough crack for them to get their hands in.

With a strength borne of necessity they took hold of the splintered door and wrenched it back off its hinges, the padlock ripped free and flailing wildly with their force. Hot, black smoke billowed out at them, blinding them for a moment but John felt the limp body being pressed into his arms. He looked up into Sherlock’s fear filled eyes before he looked down to see Aoife unconscious in his arms.

“Help her,” said the detective desperately, “Help her please.”

John had been a battlefield surgeon, worked on friends, comrades and the enemy alike in the harshest situations but the sight of the petite Irish woman in his arms all but erased every coping mechanism he had and it was only the hands of the others that dragged them away from the burning pub that had him moving at all. Removal from the heat however seemed to bring back his ability and he settled Aoife as best he could on the ground, cursing the fact he had nothing of any medical value with him. The woman before him bore several substantial burns but it was the shallow, pained breathing that worried him the most.

He began to issue orders to fetch him whatever could be found in the village to assist but he was cut short by the sound of a helicopter overhead. His first thought was of Mycroft, the elder Holmes having finally traced him or Evangeline having given up their secret but soon the red emergency chopper came into view, settling in the middle of the world close enough that John felt himself being pushed back by the down draft.

He got to his feet as the paramedics hurried to them, quickly spouting off all he had assessed before he stepped back, knowing he would be more hindrance than help to them as they tended to the fallen woman. 

“What are they doing to her?” said Sherlock desperately, “Aoife!”

John took firm hold of the younger man, forcing the pale eyes to meet his, “Everything they can,” he said firmly, “She’s in the best hands, better than I could do for her. They’ll get her out of here as soon as they can and to a hospital where she can be helped. I’m sending you with them.”

“Why?” said Sherlock his tone genuinely bemused.

“This for one thing,” said John, turning his attention to the red, blistering mark on Sherlock’s arm, “Its not a bad burn but it will scar if you’re not treated, plus you were in that pub for far too long, you breathed in more smoke than you did air.”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock waving him off, “Go with Aoife to the hospital, call me when you have news.”

“I’m only going if you come with me,” said John, “If you refuse to come then I’m staying with you, smoke inhalation is not something to be taken lightly. I’ll give them my details and have them call when they have news.”

Sherlock looked torn for a moment but then his strength fled him and it was all John could do to keep him from falling, guiding him to the floor as his legs went out. He pulled the grimy, tatty head to his chest, mumbling nonsense to him as he watched the adrenaline drain from him. The paramedics continued at Aoife’s side as sirens rang out in the distance, the emergency services finally reaching the remote village. John watched as Padraig came over to them, the man looking drained and aged by the night.

“You were a stupid lad going in there Sherlock,” he said, “Stupid but brave. You might have just saved her life. Do you know what started it?”

“We weren’t in the bar,” said Sherlock, “We left hours ago, the only people left were Aoife and…”

“Sullivan,” said John, his gaze following Sherlock’s back to the burning building, “Sherlock was he in there?”

“I didn’t look,” said Sherlock, attempting to get to his feet but John held him firm, “I didn’t even think, he’d have been upstairs.”

“Is this Sullivan the man with the car?” said Padraig, “He left not long after you did, saw him from the kitchen window, best as you can see anything in a fret like this.”

“Left?” said John, seeing the horror that reached his friend’s face, “You don’t think he could of…”

“You were right John,” said Sherlock, his voice toneless, “You were right.”

“Are you lads alright?” said Padraig.

“Fine, fine,” said John, helping Sherlock to his feet, “I need to speak to the paramedics. Stay here, I’ll be back in a moment and then we can talk.”

John wasn’t quite sure how much had got through to the man before him, but Sherlock nodded at least and he headed towards the paramedics as they were loading Aoife into the chopper. 

“Which hospital are you taking her to?” said John.

“Are you a family member?” said the paramedic, his face ruddy and lined before his years from years of work in such conditions.

“No but I am a friend and also a doctor, I just need to know where I can find her.”

The paramedic soon gave him the details and John gave him his phone number, knowing at least that Aoife was in safe hands in transit. He turned back to the gathered crowds, seeing Sherlock sat once more on the floor, oblivious to Padraig at his side who was trying to coax some sort of communication from him. He saw the fire-fighters trying to contain the flames but there was little of the building left to save, wood and alcohol doing nothing to assist them. The Gardai had arrived also and were collecting names and details. John hurried back to Sherlock’s side, wondering if the shock of the evening would have him forgetting his alias.

“Thanks for looking after him Padraig,” said John, “How are you feeling Sherlock?”

The younger man was silent and Padraig looked up at John in concern.

“He hasn’t said a word of sense since you went,” said Padraig, “Kept mentioning a Moriarty but there’s none by that name in this village, used to know a Moriarty in Tralee when I was a lad but he’s been dead ten year at least. Its pretty common name round these parts thought.”

John forced a smile, “He never makes much sense at the best of times,” he said, slipping at arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, “Come on, let’s get you somewhere warm.”

“John, what do we do?” said Sherlock quietly as the older man helped him to his feet.

“We get some rest and we talk in the morning,” said John, “You don’t need to be standing out in this vile weather, you’ll make yourself ill…”

“But Moriarty…”

“Hush,” said John, “Not now, not now Sherlock.”

The words seemed to do the trick and Sherlock fell silent, leaning against John as he trembled with the cold and the adrenalin rapidly disserting his system. John knew they wouldn’t get far past the Gardai without speaking to them, especially with some many of the villagers gesturing towards Sherlock with effusions on his bravery. John soon caught the attention of one young officer, recognising a new recruit if ever he had seen one and he soon had him satisfied with his details and Sherlock’s false ones. He was glad for the distraction of the fire as it allowed him to lead Sherlock away without a fuss, the younger man inert and trembling in his grip as they navigated their way back to the cottage. 

John was glad he had tended the fire before they had run from the cottage, the warmth providing a welcome embrace as they entered the cottage and he set Sherlock down on the bed, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. 

“Let me get some candles lit and then I want to take a look at you,” he said, “I’m still not happy that you didn’t go to hospital.”

John set about his task but turned as he heard frantic shuffling behind him, seeing Sherlock hurriedly stuffing clothes into John’s bag without pause to see who they belonged too.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here,” said Sherlock, “The road won’t be pleasant in the fog but you’ll get to a town before too long.”

“And why would I be going to any town Sherlock?” said John, folding his arms as his lover continued his frantic packing.

“Moriarty,” said Sherlock, “You’re not safe around me, not anymore.”

John unfolded his arms and crossed to the younger man, holding out a hand to take the bag and tossing it across the room when it was handed to him, “I’m going nowhere.”

“But John…”

“But John nothing,” said the soldier, taking hold of Sherlock’s trembling form and keeping him in place, “I am not going anywhere. We have no idea what happened at that bar and we have no idea who or what was behind it but if it is Moriarty or at least one of his vile lot can you seriously ask me to leave you? I am staying here and facing whatever comes, you don’t get to make the choice for me this time Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head, curls dampened by the fret sprinkling water droplets onto them both, “But you’ll be at risk and I…Aoife…she was my friend and they…oh John everyone I love…everyone.”

John caught him as he fell, shifting them both onto the ratty mattress as he wrapped his arms around the younger man. The sobs when they came were like a dam breaking, months even years of frustration pouring forth in a torrent that John was sure no one else had ever seen and if they had ever happened before it was on the pillows of the detective’s bed and never onto anyone’s shoulder. John felt both flattered and humbled that he was so trusted, that he could bear witness to Sherlock’s pain but it hurt him that he could do little to help it. He wanted to speak, to find the words to comfort the broken man but he knew there was little that would help. The tears were harbingers of all he had suffered and seen, the taunts, the alienation, the understanding of the world that he could share with no one, the cold where he should have felt love and the fear that came when that love was threatened. 

Sociopath. The word had meant little to John when he had first heard it from the detective’s lips. He knew it’s meaning, its scientific diagnosis but he did not know what it meant when Sherlock applied it to himself. Within hours of their meeting John had already felt his warmth, laughed at his humour and witnessed the kindness in him even if it was shown in such a roundabout way. He hadn’t pandered to John’s limp, he had shown him a way out of it, given him back his life and given him back a reason for living. He had never been a sociopath, John had never seen it even in the darkest moments or when Sherlock had tried his best to show it, he had seen love, love shown by a man who didn’t know how to show it as conventions and the movies would have it.

“Sweetheart,” murmured John into the black curls, “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Everyone John,” said Sherlock bitterly, “Everyone I care for and I throw them into harm’s way. Aoife never asked to be part of this and now…what if she dies? I can’t…Molly, she’d never forgive me.”

“She’s not going to die,” said John, “I spoke to the paramedic, she’s not well but she’ll live. There are burns and she’ll have some smoke inhalation but she’s strong and she’ll fight. Aoife Malone will not be a victim of tonight so put it out of your mind.”

“What if we’d stayed there John?” said Sherlock, “If we’d stayed there and not woken…”

“Stop it!” said John as the tears began to tumble down his friend’s cheeks once more, “What ifs aren’t going to do anyone any good, especially you.”

As if a precursor to the sound, John’s words were cut short as Sherlock’s sobs became a wracking cough that shook his slim form to the point where John had to release him for fear of his own injury. As the initial spasms subsided John helped him into a more comfortable position, propped against the wall with several pillows. He knew that the depression still had hold of Sherlock as he acquiesced without complaint, allowing John to manhandle him into position and then spend few moments checking both his pulse and his respiration.

“You’re not wheezing, which is a positive sign,” said John, “You’re lucky you didn’t breathe too much in.”

“The cellar wasn’t too bad until the last few minutes,” said Sherlock, “By then I think I was holding my breath anyway.”

“Well whatever you did it protected your lungs, you’re not in any danger,” said John, stroking back the grimy black curls, “You need a bath my love but first I want you to drink something and let me have a look at that burn.”

“Yes Doctor Watson,” said Sherlock with a small smile before his face fell again, “John, what do I do? I thought we were so safe.”

John got to his feet, busying himself with fetching the prescribed drink before rifling through his bag and locating a small medical kit, “First you stop worrying until we know more for sure,” he said, “There’s nothing to say Sullivan had anything to do with Moriarty much less whether he had anything to do with the fire at all. He saw us leave, if he was after you why not come and burn down the cottage, God knows the bloody thing is probably flammable enough.”

“But its what he did last time, threaten the people I care about…”

“You’re forgetting that last time it was for the purpose of duress, he threatened us to make you act,” said John, “We’ve had no threats, no demands, no nothing. What could he hope to gain by harming Aoife? Dead you would have nothing left to act on for her and now injured she is in hospital where it will be far more difficult to harm her.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but then dropped his gaze to the glass of water being pressed into his hand, “I should have thought of that.”

John smiled, taking hold of his injured arm gently, “You’ve had a shock, only natural for the hard-drive to need a moment to reboot itself,” he said, smiling at the look he received, “Don’t look so petulant, its not permanent. Look if you can’t have a little vulnerability around me what hope do we have?”

“Vulnerability puts us at risk,” said Sherlock flinching as John tended the burn on his arm.

“And puts us on our guard,” said John, “I’m not going to let you win this argument. It’s the middle of the night, what you need now is some rest, look at this in the morning.”

“Do you really think I’ll be able to sleep tonight?” said Sherlock.

“No,” said John, wrapping a bandage around Sherlock’s arm, “But I’m not about to let you go around chasing spectres in a sea fret. Aoife is safe and we’re safe here for the time. When morning comes we can go to the hospital, see if we can see Aoife and find out what she remembers and then start from there. I’m with you on this, every step.”

“For tomorrow at least, you fly home on Sunday.”

John shifted until he was at his side, throwing an arm around the slim shoulders and pulling Sherlock against his own, “I can always push it back, if Moriarty’s people do know where you are there’s no question of me leaving you here alone anyway. If we hear anything tomorrow that worries us then I’ll stay or we’ll both be leaving, to one of your brother’s safe houses or no.”

“That’s not the life I want for us,” said Sherlock, turning his face until it was pressed against John’s neck, reaching for the discarded blankets to cover them both.

“Nor is this,” said John, “You deserve more than this place, so much more.”

“Baker Street?” said Sherlock softly.

John felt the smile on his lover’s lips as they pressed against his neck, “Baker Street,” he echoed, pulling him tighter still.

xxxx

John followed Sherlock through the brightly lit entrance hall to the large hospital, not noticing the sick and suffering around him as all his being focused on the broken and almost desperate man in front of him. Every slightly deeper breath brought John’s worry to the fore and he wanted nothing more than to hurry the younger man to a bed with all the equipment he would need to fully assess the damage the smoke had done to him. Sherlock on the other hand had other ideas; pale, determined eyes trained on the desk before them. The nurse behind the reception desk smiled warmly as they came to a pause, a gentleness almost inherent in her mannerisms.

“How may I help you?” she said, the small dimples in her cheeks heightening somewhat as she spoke.

John waited for them to be quickly wiped by Sherlock’s barbed tongue, very few lucky to escape it when the detective was in a rush and concerned but what shocked John was not the fact that Sherlock’s words were neither barbed nor impatient when he replied but instead it was the broad and accurate Irish accent he swiftly brought to his voice.

“I’m here to see Aoife Malone,” he said, “She was brought in last night, burns.”

The nurse swiftly turned to her computer but frowned as she looked up, “I’m afraid only family can see her right now.”

“I’m her son, Connor Malone,” said Sherlock, “Please I need to see her.”

The nurse’s frown deepened as she looked over to John, “And you sir?”

“My partner,” said Sherlock quickly, “As much a part of the family as I am.”

“She’s in room five in ICU,” she said, “She’s conscious but they want to keep her under observation for the next twenty four hours or so before they release her to the ward. I’ll get someone to take you down there.”

John waited until the young nurse was out of earshot before he turned to the man beside him, “Sherlock be careful, you’ll get found out and then too many questions will be asked.”

“I won’t do it again,” said Sherlock, “I just want to see her, see if she can tell me what happened, then I’m going after Sullivan.”

“No you bloody well are not,” said John, “If this is anything to do with Moriaty then we are getting your brother involved and getting you somewhere safe.”

“I’ve told you I don’t want that.”

John scowled, “Well you’re not the only one in this relationship,” he said, “I want you safe and if that means getting Mycroft involved then we will.”

“John…”

“Mister Malone?” said the nurse as she returned to her desk, “Nurse Tyler can take you down to see your mother. You’ll have to keep the visit short though, she needs her rest.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, the accent once more back in place and it disconcerted John no end.

They were practically silent as they headed through the quiet corridors and John could see Sherlock’s shoulders tensing more and more as the rooms became more quipped for the higher dependency patients. They finally reached the doors marked for the intensive care unit and both followed the commands given to them before they entered, the sharp tang of alcohol rub filling their senses as they stepped inside. John felt a lump rise in his throat as his eyes fell upon the bed that seemed to dwarf Aoife’s slight form, monitors beeping around her with their lights reflecting on the protective dressings that protected her burns. He was pleased though to see her breathing on her own and even more so when she looked over to them and smiled warmly. She reached out a hand to them and John held back as Sherlock crossed the room, seeing the relief in the younger man’s posture as he took his friend’s proffered hand.

“Could you give us a few minutes?” said John, turning to the nurse who had led them in.

“Of course,” she said, “Though mind you don’t excite her or stay too long, she needs her rest.”

“We’ll be brief,” said John with a smile as the young woman closed the door behind her.

“You didn’t have to come all this way,” said Aoife, her voice scratchy and raw.

“Can’t trust these Irish doctors,” said Sherlock, “I wanted you looked over by a proper professional…but in the loss of that, I brought John.”

Aoife laughed but it swiftly fell into a cough, “Oh don’t make me laugh, its hurts,” she said, “You’re a wicked boy, I know for a fact that Doctor John Watson is one of the finest in his profession.”

“That might be a little over zealous as a compliment,” said John, joining Sherlock at Aoife’s bedside, “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I should be all thanks to my heroes,” said Aoife, “God and all His saints be praised that my lads were on hand.”

“I’m only glad that we woke up in time,” said Sherlock, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, “Aoife I know you’re tired and in pain but you must tell me all that you remember, so much depends on in. The sooner we can begin to track Sullivan, the quicker we’ll catch up with him.”

Aoife looked up bemused, “Why would you need to track him?”

“Padraig said he saw him leave just before the fire started,” said John, “Your memory is bound to be hazy but try to remember what you can.”

They both looked on in shock as Aoife’s face fell before the tears began to roll down her cheeks. She tugged her hand out of Sherlock’s grip to better cover her face, her sobs heartbreaking even to the detective’s ears.

“What did he do?” said Sherlock vehemently, “Whatever he did you tell me now and he won’t get away with it. I will do whatever is in my power to help you Aoife.”

Aoife slowly calmed, fumbling once more for this hand, “My wonderful, amazing boy,” she said softly, “When God took my Connor he repaid me with you. Michael Sullivan couldn’t be any more innocent in this than if he were you or John. You don’t need to track anyone when I was the one who started that fire.”

John heard the words but their meaning took a moment to organise themselves into a pattern he understood. He looked to Sherlock, seeing the same confusion on his friend’s face, the look at once as alarming as it was alien. He knew one of them needed to ascertain the truth behind Aoife’s words and as he watched his lover attempt to find the words, he stepped in.

“What do you mean Aoife?” he said, “How could you have started the fire?”

Aoife blushed crimson, showing despite the rawness of her skin from the heat of the flames, “Isn’t it enough to know that I was the one who did it?”

“Aoife if you’re protecting him…” said Sherlock finding his voice.

“I’m not! I’m started that fire because I’m so fecking stupid and I nearly got the pair of you killed,” she said, her eyes filling with tears once more, “You know I liked the look of the man Sherlock, you saw it and you saw that he liked me. When you’d gone I took a drink to him and we talked. We kept on drinking and talking until I thought that I might… I must have acted like a teenager and then he said he had a lass back in America and was just lonely. He apologised and he left though I begged him to stay, he had too much of the drink in him to drive safely. He was adamant though and he left. I’m not proud of what I did after but its done now. You’ve spent nights drinking with me Sherlock and berated me the next morning for the whiskey when you have given up on it hours before. I drank and then I decided that I wanted something to eat.”

“Oh Aoife,” said Sherlock, “That wretched stove, please tell me you didn’t…”

“If words could make it go away my lad I’d use them. Even with the drink on me I knew the risks. I don’t remember much. I put something in and then I forgot I had and went up. What happened next we can only guess at, all I remember is you lifting me from the bed and seeing the flames,” said Aoife, “To think you risked your life for me when the whole reason you were with me was to keep you safe.”

Sherlock cradled her hand in his own, stroking the undamaged skin where he could find it, “I’m only grateful I could be there,” he said, “You’re a fool Aoife but you’re safe and we can fix this. I’ll get everything sorted before you’re even out of here, just let me know the details of your insurance and I can get Molly to make some calls on your behalf.”

Aoife smiled sadly, “You would as well but you know that times have been hard and insurance premiums fell to the wayside gone eighteen months ago, there’s no one for you to call. Its all gone,” she said, “I don’t mind the bar being gone or the furniture or everything else like that but when I went to bed the only thing I did right was to take off my apron.”

“Connor and Jimmy,” said Sherlock, sadly, “Oh Aoife I’m sorry. I won’t give you any false hope that anything has survived the fire but I wish I could.”

“I’d rather your honesty,” said Aoife, “Its one thing I love about you my lad.”

“Then listen to this and trust in the honesty in it,” said Sherlock, “I’m going to put this right for you, whatever it takes, I am going to put this right.”

Tears broke loose and tumbled down Aoife’s cheeks once more, pressing Sherlock’s palm to her cheek, “Then take care of yourself and take care of John,” she said, “You have enough to worry about without doing so for me.”

“Not possible,” said John, setting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “You’re all but family and you gave us the chance to find one another.”

“Then look to one another John Watson,” said Aoife, “I’ll be alright. You take care of Sherlock and get his name cleared, I’ve come back from worse than this.”

“I’ll call Molly,” said Sherlock, “Have her arrange things for you, contact whatever family she can to help you and I promise that I’ll visit you until you’re out of here.”

“It will be good to see you.”

“I’ll come too, every time I’m back in Ireland,” said John as the door opened and the young nurse stepped in once more, “Guess that’s our cue to go.”

“Have a safe journey home John,” said Aoife before the cradled Sherlock’s hand in both of hers, “Keep safe. Speak to Padraig and Eoin if you need to.”

“I will,” said Sherlock, glancing over his shoulder at the nurse before he bent down and pressed a kiss to Aoife’s forehead, remembering his Irish persona, “Get well soon Maime.”

“Slan mac,” said Aoife, “Goodbye son.”

John watched the look that passed between the two, knowing that despite Evangeline being all the mother Sherlock would ever need, his love for Aoife was just as genuine, two lost and lonely people who had found one another to cling to. They took their leave of both Aoife and her nurse, Sherlock still acting the son and enquiring about treatments and visiting times before they were finally ushered from the room. John watched as Sherlock’s shoulders slumped the second they were out of sight of anyone in the hospital, immediately tugging him to a halt and sitting him down on a nearby bench that edged the hospital care park.

“What do I do now?” said Sherlock, his head in his hands, “What do I do John?”

John knew what he wanted to say, demand even. He wanted to call Mycroft, to tell him everything and make him come for them, safe house be damned but he knew it was not what Sherlock needed to hear so instead he reached over and took his lover’s hand.

“First you call Molly,” he said, “And then we’ll go home, to Don Chaoin.”

Sherlock nodded, seemingly happy with the response before he fished his phone from his pocket and dialling swiftly, “Molly,” he said after a few moments, “Molly I need you to sit down, will you do that for me… good girl… there’s something I need to tell you…”

xxxx

The silence in the car on the return to the village was almost unbearable and John wanted nothing more to pull over to comfort his friend but he knew the sooner the reached the cottage the sooner they could hole up in it away from the world and Sherlock would be more comfortable than on the roadside. As they pulled into the village they saw the charred and scattered remains of the pub, the building barely discernable as it once had been. John felt a pang in his chest that Aoife had caused the disaster herself, nearly costing her own life in the process and leaving her without an income or any of her possessions. He mourned the loss of the precious photograph she had shown him, the pictures of her family consumed by the flames and he knew the pain all too well. When he had believed Sherlock dead he had clung to their pictures and the ones Evangeline had given him, reminding him of the man he had known even then that he had loved.

He reached across to the passenger seat, taking Sherlock’s pale hand in his and squeezing it tightly, “We’ll think of something,” he said, “We’ll help her.”

“I encouraged her,” said Sherlock bitterly, “I thought he liked her and I encouraged her.”

“Aoife is a grown woman Sherlock, you are in no way responsible for this,” said John, “Please see this for what it is, you don’t need anything else on your shoulders.”

Sherlock was silent again, his eyes trained out of the window and onto the landscape beyond. John parked the car beside the cottage and got out, moving round to the passenger side and opening the door for the younger man. He took his hand and coaxed him from his seat, leading him inside. The fire had died but the cottage was for once fairly warm as John sat down in the single chair, tugging Sherlock’s hand in an attempt to get him to join him.

“I refuse to look so ridiculous,” said Sherlock, keeping to his feet.

“Who’s here to see you?” said John, “And who’s to say I’m not the one who needs the cuddle?”

Sherlock looked certain to resist but then he all but fell in on himself, curling his lanky frame onto John’s lap, legs hanging over the arm as he wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck. John tugged him close, running a hand up and down the length of his spine as he buried his face in the mass of black curls. They stayed that way for a while before John felt Sherlock’s long fingers reaching into his jacket pocket, extracting his phone before he dialled a familiar number. He held it out to John, the sound of it trying to connect ringing clear before Catterick’s voice rang out.

“Holmes residence.”

“Catterick, John Watson. Is Mrs Holmes available?”

“I believe the mistress is entertaining sir but I can enquire,” said the butler, “Is the call urgent?”

“Somewhat,” said John, “But if she can’t get away just ask her to ring me as soon as she can.”

“Hold the line please sir.”

John brought his hand up to Sherlock’s hair, stroking gently as they waited, he’d begun to wrap the curls around his fingers when they heard the rustle of someone approaching the phone before Evangeline’s voice came out frantically from the device.

“John, what’s wrong?”

“Mummy,” said Sherlock before John could speak, the tone his usual low baritone but laced with a sound any mother would respond to.

“Oh darling, what’s wrong? Where are you? Are you hurt?” said Evangeline, “I can get Mycroft there in an instant if you need him, just say the word and we’re there.”

“Its alright, I’m alright, don’t panic,” said Sherlock with far more patience than he had ever shown with anyone, “We’re at the cottage, John’s with me and I’m fine. There was a fire last night and Aoife’s bar burned down, she’s got nothing left.”

“Oh my, was she hurt? We’re you hurt? I knew you working somewhere like that was a bad idea and now what are you supposed to do, she was meant to be taking care of you,” said Evangeline before she caught herself and paused, “Tell me what happened Sherlock.”

“A fire, the old stove in the kitchen needed fixing but she hadn’t had it looked at. She drank too much last night, tried to use it and in finally gave up the ghost. We barely got her out alive. I’m only glad John and I woke up when we did and could see there was something wrong from the cottage.”

“I have a legal friend who could help,” said Evangeline, “Let you know how to word things so the insurance pay up.”

“She doesn’t have insurance,” said Sherlock, “It was the first thing I checked. She’s destitute, she’s lost everything.”

Evangeline was silent for a moment before her tone grew concerned, “How can she take care of you if she has nothing Sherlock?” she said, “Cold as it sounds you’re my primary concern not her. Let me tell Mycroft and let me bring you home. You can stay here with me or we can send you to stay with Nana-May in Texas.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “You mustn’t tell Mycroft and you’re not packing me off to Texas, I’ll come back ten stone heavier if I ever come back at all. I don’t need a cage, gilded however it may be, from either Mycroft or my grandmother. I need to be here to help Aoife, she’s given me so much Mummy I can’t abandon her now.”

“Oh my sweet boy,” said Evangeline, “I understand I really do but we have to be realistic, darling. You’ve nowhere to work and Aoife can’t live with you in that dreadful old cottage. Winter’s not far off and you need warmth and food, you need to be home with the people who love you Sherlock. John agrees with me don’t you John?”

John looked at the man in his arms, seeing the look on his face that dared his defiance in the matter, “Your mum’s right love, a safe house might not be your first choice but at least we know you’ll have everything you need.”

“Except my liberty,” said Sherlock leaving John’s lap and beginning to pace the small area between the chair and their bed, “If you make me leave here then let the authorities have me and be done with it.”

“Sherlock sit down,” said John, “None of us want you to suffer but will you really be safe here without Aoife?”

“I’m not a child John…”

“No but you’re acting like one,” came Evangeline’s voice from the telephone, a tone John had never heard in it, “Sherlock Holmes sit down and be quiet or by God I will be on the first plane out there and putting you over my knee without a damn for your age or company. Do you understand me?”

The effect was instantaneous and John looked on amazed as Sherlock not only stopped pacing but promptly sat down on the bed as quiet as a mouse.

“You have got to teach me how to do that Evangeline,” said John, ignoring Sherlock’s scowl.

“Years of practice,” said Evangeline, “Now what are we going to do about this mess?”

“Am I allowed to speak about my own future?” said Sherlock from his place on the bed.

“If you do so in a manner befitting your age,” said Evangeline, “One note of petulance though and all bets are off and I’m in charge.”

Sherlock looked set to throw back a retort but thought better of it and sighed, “I don’t want to leave Ireland, not yet, I’ve got my freedom here, I wouldn’t have back in England or in America and you know I’d run mad,” he said, “Aoife has been there for me all through these dark months, she’s kept me going, fed me and given me a roof over my head; I may not have been all you ever hoped for in a son Mummy but you brought me up better than to be a man who would abandon such a debt. I needed her and now she needs me, I need to put this right.”

“But darling how, you have barely anything out there,” said Evangeline, “What will being out there do to help her?”

“I’ve got an idea but I want the both of you to listen to it in full before you interrupt me; promise me that?”

“I promise,” said Evangeline.

Storm-grey eyes looked up at John, awaiting his response and he nodded in acquiescence, knowing that whatever was to be said would upset them otherwise the promise would not have been asked for. 

“I’m dead,” said Sherlock, “In the eyes of the law and anyone else that matters Sherlock Holmes committed suicide and was pronounced dead at the scene. You have a death certificate and witnesses aplenty to that fact. When my father died he left money in trust for me that I haven’t ever touched, money that had I made a will would have passed to whomever I named in it but failing that passes back to the control of my mother. You can claim that money and use it, Mummy and I want you to do that for me. I’ll stay here, engage builders under the guise of Aoife’s son Connor, I’ll pass the invoices to John and you’ll give the money to him to bring to me. I owe Aoife so much, if I can rebuild her life in anyway I will…”

“But your Father left you that Sherlock, its your inheritance,” said Evangeline.

“That I did nothing to earn, he left me all that when I was six years old and if money was the route of all happiness Mummy then where the hell did I go wrong?” said Sherlock, “I’ve been the most selfish of creatures since the moment I knew my own name but in this I won’t be moved. The money in that account is vast, enough to fund this build and then some. You can refuse to do this Mummy and I couldn’t stop you but I’m asking you to help me get something right for once.”

“If its what you want,” said Evangeline, “Then I’ll do what I can but how will you live? How will I know that you’re warm and safe?”

“From the money I’ll ask you for enough to let me live comfortably here, I can still work with Eoin and Padraig might let me help him when needed. I don’t need much,” said Sherlock, “I need you to help one other person though. I’m going to ask a lot of John these next few months; I’ll need him to come here as often as he can and I will need him to focus on my case along with Mycroft when we tell him. The hours he works at Barts to afford Baker Street will not help, so if he wants to, I want him to have the chance to reduce his hours there and still afford the rent. Give him whatever he needs.”

“No,” said John, breaking his silence, “I won’t have you keep me Sherlock.”

“I’m not keeping you, think of it as wages for the work I’ll have you doing.”

“I don’t need wages to try and clear the name of the man I love,” said John, “I’ll bring money for you and for Aoife but I won’t be beholden to you like that, not for something I will do anyway.”

“Why don’t we cross any bridges we come to when we come to them,” said Evangeline, preventing any further discussion, “I’ll release the money from the account and give it to John to allow you to get the pub rebuilt and for anything you need to get by. I’ll speak to my lawyer first thing Monday morning. This is temporary though, very temporary. I want you home before Christmas darling.”

“Don’t set targets we can’t meet,” said Sherlock, “It’ll take a while yet and I’d rather not set dates.”

“At least let me come and see you at some point,” said Evangeline.

“Its too much of a risk now John’s been here,” said Sherlock, “I promise I’ll get into town when I can and find somewhere with internet so I can see you over the computer.”

“Alright,” said Evangeline though her tone barely concealed her sadness, “I will miss you all the more for it though.”

“I’ll miss you too,” said Sherlock, moving closer to John’s chair, “We should go, I’ve got no electricity and John will need his phone. I’ll sort something out with Padraig before you panic.”

“Be sure you do,” said Evangeline, “John let me know when you’re home, we’ll have much to discuss.”

“I will,” said John, “As soon as I’m back at Baker Street.”

“Until tomorrow then,” said Evangeline, “We will put this right Sherlock, darling, I know we will.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, “I’ll call soon.”

As the final farewells trailed away, John ended the call and slipped from his chair until he was on the floor in front of his friend. He cupped one pale cheek in his hand, his thumb tracing a soothing pattern.

“Alright?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded even as a single tear escaped his eye and he clasped John’s hand tighter to him, “Come to bed with me,” he said, “Please.”

John said nothing but got to his feet, taking the other man with him. Wordlessly he disrobed them both before he led him to the nest of blankets that had protected and cocooned them since they had been reunited and together they fell into the soft embrace and leaving the world outside forgotten.

xxxx

“Here take it and don’t make a fuss,” said John, turning away from the cash point and stuffing a stash of euros into Sherlock’s pale hand.

Sherlock scowled but pocketed the cash, “Now how are you going to eat?”

“Mrs Hudson won’t let me starve and I get paid in a week so don’t worry,” said John looking over his shoulder at the growing crowd at the check in desk, “I need to get booked in or I’ll never get on the plane.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” said Sherlock reaching out and taking his hands, “Can’t you fly back tomorrow? Stay one more night, please Mo Chuisle.”

John bit back the tears his words inspired, “I can’t, I’m on earlies tomorrow and if I don’t show they’ll ask questions,” he said, “Two weeks though and I’ll be back, I’ll book the flights as soon as I get home.”

“Speak to Mycroft first, get him to pay.”

John smiled, “Even upset you’re Machiavellian,” he said, “I’ll pay my own way thank you very much Mister Holmes, even when I have told your brother about you. I really have to go sweetheart.”

Sherlock’s kiss when it came was desperate and spoke volumes of the pain that was racing through John’s veins in equal measure at their separation.

“I love you,” said Sherlock, his grip on John’s hands unrelenting, “So much.”

“I love you,” echoed John as the final call for check in sounded around them, “I really have to go.”

He pushed up onto his toes and kissed Sherlock once more, resisting the urge to lose himself in it and give up all chance of making his flight.

“I’ll call as soon as I land,” he said, as Sherlock released his hands and allowed him to pick up his bag, “Be careful getting home.”

“You too, London cabbies can be murder.”

John grinned, “That was bad.”

Sherlock smiled weakly, “Best I’ve got right now. Remember what we agreed you’d tell My and don’t forget to go to my grave, you need to act as though I’m still dead. As soon as you’ve made contact with my brother I’ll be able to send over all the information I’ve gathered.”

“I know,” said John, “Don’t hang around for me ok, get going or you’ll have too long a walk back in the dark. I wish you didn’t have to get a train.”

“I’ll manage, it’s barely five miles from the station to the village,” said Sherlock, stepping back, “Go on Mo Chuisle.”

John kissed him once more, “You never told me the translation,” he said, before the call rang out once more, “Speak to you in a few hours.”

They neither of them said goodbye, the word seeming far too final and John turned and hurried to the desk, the attendant berating him but passing him through. He was quickly ushered to the small security area and passed through. As he waited for the guard to clear him he looked back but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and John was glad he had chosen not to linger. His phone beeped almost as soon as it was back in his hand and he smiled as his text alert flashed Sherlock’s name. He joined the queue at his flight gate and opened the message, smiling at the message therein.

“Mo Chuisle, Gaelic for my darling but literally translated as My Pulse. I love you. SH.”

xxxx

A/N: Well of course there’ll be a sequel.

See you there.

Nova xx


End file.
